


An Unquenchable Flame

by MsBarrows



Series: Young Alistair [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Gen, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In which King Maric is Not Amused to learn of the conditions under which young Alistair is being raised.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Accidental Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> In which King Maric is Not Amused to learn of the conditions under which young Alistair is being raised.

" _Then the Maker said:  
_ _To you, my second-born, I grant this gift:  
_ _In your heart shall burn  
_ _An unquenchable flame  
_ _All-consuming, and never satisfied.  
_ _From the Fade I crafted you,  
_ _And to the Fade you shall return  
_ _Each night in dreams  
_ _That you may always remember me."_

 _Canticle of Threnodies 5:7_

  


* * *

"I beg your pardon, Bann Teagan... there's a message arrived from the palace for you, ser..."

"From the palace?" Teagan said, looking up with a frown from the book he'd been reading. "Thank you, Matilda," he said, carefully marking his place and setting the book aside before taking the folded message from her hand. She nodded and walked away.

He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the royal seal, his name scrawled in a blocky script across the flap. Why on earth was Maric writing to _him_! He slid his thumb under the flap, cracking the wax seal, and unfolded the paper, quickly reading the brief message penned inside, requesting him to attend the king at the castle, early the following afternoon. He put it aside, wondering why. He, unlike his brother Eamon, was not a particular friend of the king. He'd just have to wait and see, he supposed. For now, he resumed reading his book.

* * *

"Your majesty," Bann Teagan said, bowing to his king.

King Maric looked up, smiled, and rose to his feet from behind his desk. "Ah, Bann Teagan – thank you for obliging me with a little of your time."

"Of course, King Theirin..."

"Just Maric, please... this is an informal conversation," Maric said, and gestured to a pair of comfortable chairs placed to either side of a window overlooking the palace gardens. "Please, join me."

Teagan nodded, and sat down, feeling nervous in his king's presence. Doubtless his brother would have handled this situation with his usual calm aplomb, but then _he_ had been a close friend of the king for years. Teagan's only exposure to Maric before this had been at a handful of formal occasions, and in his brother's presence.

"Am I correct in my belief that you will be stopping in at Redcliffe to see your brother, on your way back to Rainesfere?" Maric asked, his voice a deep, pleasant rumble.

"Er, yes, your majesty."

"Maric," the king reproved him.

"Yes... Maric." Teagan said hesitantly.

Maric smiled warm approval at him. "Good. Then perhaps you can assist me with a... rather delicate personal matter. You are aware, of course, of the identity of your brother's ward, Alistair? I do recall giving Eamon specific permission to inform you of his true parentage..."

"Yes, I am aware that he is your... issue," Teagan said carefully.

Maric laughed. "My bastard, you mean. It's actually because of him that I wanted to speak to you."

"Your majesty?" Teagan said, puzzled.

Maric laughed again. "I know it may not seem like it, when I've so carefully avoided him all these years, but I _do_ care for the boy, you know. He is my son, as much as Cailan is, even if I am unable to acknowledge him as such," he said regretfully. Abruptly he rose to his feet. Teagan started to rise as well, but Maric waved him down.

"Sit," he gently commanded. "I just prefer pacing. Anyway, the boy's tenth birthday is in a few days – just around the time you'll be arriving in Redcliffe. So I was hoping to enlist your aid in both selecting and delivering a present for him. Something suitable," Maric added, frowning thoughtfully. "The sort of thing your brother can easily claim to be a gift from himself. You undoubtedly know the boy much better then I, sadly, so I shall have to rely on your opinion as to what the boy would like."

"Errr... I'm not sure what sort of thing would be suitable," Teagan said hesitantly, mind already racing. There was so little that Eamon could be seen to give to a stable boy without it raising comment, which seemed to be exactly what Maric wanted to avoid.

"He's a bit young for it still, but perhaps a sword? Just a training one of course. Or a mabari puppy?" Maric said eagerly. "What does the boy like doing?"

Teagan blinked, surprised. Both suggestions were wildly inappropriate for one of the boy's station. He put aside thought of that for now, and instead focused on the king's question. "He likes getting in trouble, is what he likes doing," he blurted, then flushed with embarrassment. That had _not_ been in the least diplomatic!

Maric roared, thankfully seeming more tickled then offended at the comment. "Sounds like me at his age," he said, grinning. "The scamp. Maybe a pony of his own? Or does he have one already?"

"Errr... no, he does not possess a pony," Teagan said, surprised again. "And the gift of one might seem a little... excessive. As would be a sword or a mabari," he added.

"Really?" Maric said, looking surprised. "Well, never mind those then," he said, and stepped over to a sideboard, picking up a decanter and pouring a glass of spirits. "Care to join me?" he asked, holding up the bottle. "Some very nice Sun Blonde."

"Thank you, yes," Teagan agreed, then frowned in thought. "I suppose a puppy would do, if it was only a cull, and was presented as a reward of some kind, maybe for the outcome of that recent mishap on the lake."

"Mishap on the lake?" Maric said, pausing in the middle of pouring the second glass of spirits.

"Yes, that business a few weeks ago when he and the other stable boys were out on the lake in a storm. Terrible tragedy, of course, but Alistair apparently did real yeoman's work in keeping it from turning into a complete disaster; only two dead, instead of all seven of them, which could well have been the outcome," Teagan said, frowning at the memory of that terrible night, then started as he looked up and caught the appalled look on King Maric's face. "I'm sorry, didn't Eamon write you about it?" he asked.

"I'm afraid Eamon's letter to me about it must have gone astray," Maric said calmly as he walked over, handing Teagan a brimming glass before resuming his own seat. "This is the first I've heard about it. Please, fill me in on the details of this little... adventure... of my son's."

* * *

Maric smiled pleasantly as he said farewell to Bann Teagan, promising to take the man's suggestions under advisement and have a suitable gift for Alistair brought to him before he departed for Redcliffe in two days time. Only after the door was safely shut did he allow his anger to show.

By the Maker! _His son_ , being raised as nothing more than a stable boy! He had _trusted_ Eamon to look after the boy properly. _Trusted_ him as his close friend, _trusted_ him as the brother of his now long-deceased wife, _believed_ the boy was being raised as befit the bastard son of the king. To learn that Eamon had been betraying his confidence in him all these years; lying through his teeth, or at the very least lying by omission... it stung.

By Andraste's light, he would see that Eamon received the full weight of his displeasure on this matter. The first step, of course, would be to see that the boy was given a proper education, in all the things that he should have been learning all these years. By Teagan's words, it sounded like the boy didn't even know how to _read_ , much less any of the skills he should have by now. Skills that would enable him to serve as a page, then a squire, eventually becoming Ser Alistair, as his blood deserved. Even Bann Alistair if he proved himself worthy of the title through his deeds once he was older.

A _stable boy_! He poured himself a second drink, and knocked it back in one gulp, hissing the foulest curses he knew under his breath.

There was a quiet knock at the door. "Yes!" he roared, irritated.

There was a brief silence, then the door opened and Teryn Loghain stepped in, closing the door silently behind him before turning to look at his king. "If this is a poor time for our meeting, I can come back another day...?" Loghain asked calmly, raising one eyebrow questioningly.

"No, no, now is fine," Maric growled, putting aside the glass, and trying to put aside his current anger as well, as he moved to take a seat. "I'd rather get these details sorted out now, then have to deal with them later."

Loghain sat down as well in his usual seat. "Good. In that case, I have some suggestions for..."

Maric nodded and leaned forward, listening intently, his friend's usual phlegmatic personality serving, as it so often did, to calm his own raging emotions. For now, his anger was dampened as he focused on the task at hand. Not gone, of course, simply put aside for the moment, as his _old friend_ Eamon would learn as soon as he had the time to properly address the issue of young Alistair...


	2. An Appropriate Gift

Arl Eamon smiled happily as he greeted his younger brother. "Teagan! So good to see you again. How did your trip go?" he asked warmly.

"Quite well, thank you," Teagan said, smiling as he climbed the steps towards where Eamon waited. "And thank you again for the use of your Denerim estate."

"Nonsense, no thanks needed," Eamon said, hugging him briefly before turning to lead the way into the castle, one hand still resting companionably on his brother's shoulder. "How did your business work out?"

"Oh, reasonably well. At least in Highever. I think I'm going to pass on the opportunity in Amaranthine; it sounded quite good at first, but I dislike the reputation of one of the primary backers for it."

"Not that chit Rendon Howe is involved with, is it?" Eamon asked.

"Bann Esmerelle. Yes."

"Ah, terrible woman. Utterly tasteless; I don't know what Rendon sees in her, especially when he already has a perfectly good wife. Mind you, I've heard she has a talent for squeezing every possible copper out of things, so if she's involved the venture may well be highly profitable."

"For her at least, yes... I'm not so sure the terms were as favourable to minority partners, such as I would have been. I think I'd rather invest my money somewhere safer. I've heard Teryn Loghain is looking for subscribers to fund an expanded lumbering operation near Gwaren; the pay back would be over a longer term and at a lower rate then Esmeralle's little expedition, but it's surer, and should continue paying back for quite some time."

Arl Eamon snorted. "Teryn Loghain!" he muttered derisively. "That jumped up poacher..."

Teagan hid a smile. He knew his brother didn't particularly care for the common-born Loghain, but suspected it was more because he saw him as competition for King Maric's favour then because of his lowly birth. The man had certainly earned every honour he'd ever been given by the grateful king. Which reminded him...

"I saw King Maric while I was in Denerim," Teagan said as he sank into his usual chair in Eamon's study. "He summoned me to the palace. I was pretty nervous, as you might guess... I am hardly as well-acquainted with the man as you yourself are."

"Oh?" Eamon asked as he poured glasses of brandy for the two of them. "What did Maric want?"

"He knew I'd be stopping by here on my way through, and wanted to load me down with gifts for a certain young ward of yours who is apparently about to turn ten," Teagan said, smiling. "Rather extravagant gifts, at first, though he did let me talk him around to something more reasonable in the end. Remind me to fetch you the package from my saddle bags later."

Eamon grunted and nodded, and took a sip of his brandy.

Teagan followed suit, then frowned and put his glass aside. "Eamon..." he said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"I... got the strangest feeling when talking to him that King Maric wasn't aware of how Alistair is being raised. He seemed to assume he was... well, being treated as your ward."

Eamon raised his eyebrows. "He _is_ being raised as my ward."

"Yes, but... it wasn't until later that I realized his extravagant gifts would potentially have been appropriate ones, if Alistair was... not a stable boy. If he was being raised in your household with the view to training him towards eventual knighthood. If he was one of your pages," Teagan finished, looked questioningly at his brother. He took a deep breath, then continued. " _Does_ the king know his bastard is little more then a minor servant in your household?"

Eamon frowned, then put his own glass aside. "I have never felt it was necessary to keep him informed of Alistair's exact status, no. I promised to raise his by-blow and see that he had a living, yes – I certainly never said or indicated that I would raise him to have any more status then a common-born bastard deserves! "

Teagan's own frown deepened. "Brother... his mother may have been common born, but his father is _our king_. He has Theirin blood in him. Surely he deserves more then to be a... an unlettered _stable boy_."

"Nonsense," Eamon said sharply. "No, Teagan, raising the lad to have greater expectations, to encourage him to rise beyond his appropriate social level... that would be cruel. And it would be even greater folly if he were to be allowed to learn of his royal blood and encouraged to form ambitions. We have a King and he has a perfectly healthy heir, nor is he yet so old that he might not marry again and father additional _legitimate_ heirs. Look at Isolde and myself as an example; Maric and I are much of an age, after all."

"Is she carrying again?" Teagan asked, momentarily distracted from his concern about Alistair.

"Yes, and the healer thinks she'll actually keep this one, Maker be praised! I had begun to worry for her health, if she continued losing babes."

"Well, then you have my hopes for a healthy and fruitful pregnancy for her, and the birth of an heir for you," Teagan said, taking up his glass again and raising it to toast the three.

"Thank you," Eamon said, and took another sip of his own brandy. "Anyway, enough of young Alistair, tell me more of your trip."

Teagan nodded. He put aside the topic for now, though he felt sure he'd return to it later, and settled back to tell Eamon all the details of his trip.

* * *

Eamon stood on the top of the stairs, waving farewell as Teagan rode his horse out of the courtyard. It had been pleasant to see his brother again so soon after his previous visit, though their disagreement over the proper manner of raising Maric's by-blow had led to a slight strain between the two. Still, he was sure, his brother would soon enough realize he was right, and all would be perfectly well between them again.

Speaking of the boy, he'd best go take a look at the packet Teagan had brought from King Maric, and see what poorly-chosen gift the King wished him to press on the bastard now. Hopefully his final choice had not been as wildly inappropriate as the golem doll he'd gifted the brat with so many years ago. And then once that was taken care of, he could go spend some time with Isolde. The poor thing was being pretty much confined to her apartment by her healer to minimize risk to the unborn child, and she was finding being immured indoors during the fine autumn weather a trial.

He sat down at the desk in his study and carefully slit open the wrappings of the packet, folding them back to reveal a sealed letter, addressed to him, and a necklace of some kind – a silver amulet, marked with Andraste's flame, pendant on a silver chain. He pushed it aside and opened the letter, peering short-sightedly at Maric's blocky script.

He was soon frowning. The tone of the letter was... cool, compared to the king's usual affability. He was to present the enclosed amulet to the boy – a keepsake of the brat's mother, it seemed – and make him aware of his true parentage. Eamon frowned at the wording of that passage in particular. He wasn't just _asked_ to tell the boy – Maric had used the full formal phrasing, that he 'requested and required' Eamon to do this. It was a direct order from his king, and he had a nasty feeling that Maric would be very annoyed with him if he shirked the duty even so much as to write back and question the wisdom of the idea before carrying it out.

Even more worrisome was the closing paragraph, where Maric stated that he was 'taking thought to the boy's future' and that Eamon could expect further communication on this subject. Drat it... the man had decided to take an interest in the boy, disregarding all Eamon's advice over the years that to do so would be both inappropriate and unwise.

For a moment he entertained uncharitable thoughts toward both his king and his brother, but had to admit it had been at least in part his own fault for not ensuring that Teagan was properly primed on how to address any questions that Maric might ever chance to ask him about the boy. But then, he'd never expected that Maric would ever do so; _he_ was Maric's confidant, not Teagan.

He eyed the amulet with distaste, then opened a desk drawer and swept the amulet into it. He would deal with boy, amulet and revelation on the boy's tenth birthday; it would only delay the inevitable for a few days, but at least by then he might have a rein on his current ill-temper. He took care to destroy the letter from Maric before leaving the room; the less evidence of the brat's true parentage the better, he'd always felt.

He decided to go take a turn around the garden before visiting Isolde; he'd prefer to be in better mood before disturbing her rest. And perhaps he could find some late-blossoming flowers to bring her, to cheer her up in her confinement.


	3. Parentage

Eamon frowned at Alistair. "Sit," he ordered, pointing at the straight-backed wooden chair positioned near his desk.

"Yes, ser," The boy said quietly, and sat down, surprisingly neatly for once, his feet flat on the floor, back almost rigid he was so upright, hands clasped in his lap.

Eamon snorted. Perhaps the boy was remembering their last interview, when he'd had to scold him so soundly after that disastrous outing the stable boys had gone on. Lucky the boat they'd stolen had been recoverable, so he'd only needed to pay for its repair, rather then replacement; money the surviving boys had been informed would be paid back in extra hours of labour from them about the castle, as punishment for the theft.

Judging by the boy's sun-darkened skin, whatever extra labour he was doing was something outside; probably working in the castle gardens, judging by the amount of dirt caught under his nails even after being thoroughly scrubbed before being sent up to see Eamon.

"You turn ten today," Eamon abruptly said.

"Ser?" Alistair said, looking puzzled.

"Today is your tenth birthday," Eamon repeated, then opened his desk drawer, pulling out the silver amulet, and tossed it at the boy; he had good reflexes, and caught it, staring down at it, puzzled.

"That," Eamon continued, pointing at it, and fighting not to grit his teeth over the words. "Is a gift from your father – it belonged to your mother, a keepsake of hers."

Alistair blinked at the amulet in his hands, then looked owlishly at Eamon. "My... father?" he said, haltingly. Then added a belated "Ser."

Eamon frowned, and rose to his feet, then began pacing back and forth in the small space between his desk and the nearby window. "Yes. Your father. Who judges that you are now old enough to be told of your true parentage," he added.

"I... I know my mother was a maid here at the castle..." the boy stammered.

Eamon scowled and waved his hand. "Yes, yes," he said, dismissively, not bothering to correct the lad on that point. "It's of your father whom I speak. Before I tell you more of him, I must be sure you understand that what I tell you is for your ears alone; it is not something to casually mention to anyone, even your closest of friends. Do you understand?" he asked sharply, giving the boy a severe look.

Alistair shrunk down in his chair, looking fearful. "...yes," he finally said, in a very small voice.

"Good. You are a bastard, as you well know. Which is bad enough, but then there is the issue of _whose_ bastard you are, boy. Your father is King Maric," he said, and paused to see what the brat's response would be.

The boy looked confused, brow drawing down in puzzlement, lips flexing for a moment. "King Maric?" he repeated hesitantly after a moment. "Ser?"

"Yes, King Maric, whom as you know has a legitimate heir already – my nephew, prince Cailan," Eamon pointed out. "It is my close relationship to the royal family which caused your father to trust me to see to your raising. To see, among other things, that you don't let knowledge of whom your father is cause you to look or act beyond your station. Your father may be king, but _you_ , my lad, are not a prince. You are a _bastard_ , your mother a commoner, and your father has no intention of ever acknowledging you as his. The king's heir is his legitimate son, and after him, any such heirs of his body as he may father. You have no place in the succession yourself. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

The boy nodded, eyes still big with shock over the news of his father's identity.

"Good. Now, you are lucky in that your father wishes you well, within the limitations of what would be a suitable life for you. He has asked that you be taught your letters, among other things. I have made arrangements for one of the sisters at the chantry to teach you; you will be released from your work for a couple of hours each afternoon to attend on her. You are _not_ to take advantage of the time to loiter about the town or go adventuring, you are to proceed directly to the chantry, have your lesson, and then return directly to the stable to finish your work. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ser," the boy quietly responded.

"Good. And remember, what I have told you today is for your ears alone. If I find that you've been spreading tales about your parentage, or putting on airs because of it, I shall be most displeased, as will be your father. Do you understand _that_?"

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, nodding so vigorously the amulet almost dropped from his hands.

Eamon resumed his seat and frowned for a moment, then decided that there was nothing more to say. "Good. You are dismissed."

Alistair nodded, rose to his feet, and left, the amulet still cupped in his hands.


	4. Alistair, Alone

Alistair cleaned and refilled the last of the water buckets, grunting as he hefted the heavy weight, rope handle digging into his well-calloused hands, and lugged it into the barn. At least he could carry a full bucket by himself now; he was still the smallest of the stable boys, even some that were younger then he were taller, but he could do his fair share of the work. Not like when he'd first been made a stable boy.

He put the heavy wooden bucket down at the end of the row of them, nodding with satisfaction to see them all set out and ready for the evening feed in a couple of hours, then climbed a nearby ladder to the hay loft. There was some time yet until he could go to the dining hall and eat; he might as well take the opportunity to rest. He climbed up the slippery stack of straw, then burrowed around, making a nest in the top to curl up in, sighing in satisfaction at the familiar sweet smell of it. It reminded him of when he was younger, and lived in a straw-lined stall, like one of the mabari hounds, or a young foal. Comforting, even if the prickly ends of the stiff dry straw made it uncomfortable.

He scratched absently at a flea-bite on one leg, then dug down the front of his tunic, pulling out the silver amulet the Arl had given him on his birthday. He rolled over onto his stomach, turning the amulet over and over in his fingers, just looking at it. It was so simple... a plain silver amulet, with Andraste's Flame on one side, the other side smooth and unmarked, polished enough that when he held it up, he could see his own eye staring back at him from it. He wondered if that eye looked more like his mother or his father's eyes. He lowered his head, resting his chin on one fist, and held the amulet in the other, slowly moving it around to see bits of his own face reflected in it. The arch of his eye brow, the ridge of his nose, his own curving lips, the shape of his chin... did he look like either of them at all? Both perhaps?

He sighed, tucked the amulet back under his tunic, and rolled over onto his back, folding his hands beneath his head and staring up at the slanted wooden roof overhead. He'd never know; there might be one or two of the servants who remembered what his mother had looked like, but he had no idea who they might be, or what to ask, to find out. He'd never seen King Maric, nor was he ever likely to; his father didn't want to see him.

That... hurt. It had been bad enough, growing up knowing he was a bastard, not even knowing whether his father was been alive or dead, or what he'd been to his mother... lover, fiance, friend, even – he shied away from the thought, but knew it too was a possibility – rapist. _Knowing_ that his father lived, knew about him, but didn't want him – that was worse. He blinked back tears.

At least the Arl had wanted him, had taken him to raise, given him a home, given him a _place_. Maybe even cared for him, at least a little. He'd given him that golem doll years ago, after all, and made a point of talking to him every now and then. Okay, _yes_ , usually only when he'd done something bad or stupid, but at least he cared enough to do that much; he could have just left Alistair's discipline entirely in the hands on the stable master. But he hadn't; he took an _interest_ in Alistair, in what he did.

It couldn't have been easy for the Arl, either; Alistair knew the rumours, he'd had them thrown in his face often enough when he was younger. That the Arl was his father. He'd... almost wished that he was, for a while. The Arl was a good man, everyone knew that. But the Arl also had a wife, and since she'd rarely concerned herself about whether or not servants were about, everyone knew that she resented the rumours about Alistair, and reacted furiously any time she learned the Arl had concerned himself with the boy.

She'd been particularly livid when she'd heard about the arrangement the Arl had made for Alistair to learn to read. The servants had been whispering about it for days afterwards; she'd chased him out of her rooms, one maid claimed, throwing things after him. And her supposed to be resting quietly in bed, so she didn't lose the latest babe, like she'd lost all the ones before.

Alistair wished his father hadn't asked for him to be taught. He sort of enjoyed learning his letters, even if it was hard work, but it had driven another wedge into the slowly widening crack between him and the other stable boys. Most of his closest friends had died that summer, and the ones left had all... changed, afterwards.

Peatrick had gone all quiet since Simon died; they'd been close friends since childhood. He'd seemed relieved when the stable master promoted him to groom, and sent him off to work at the stud farm. Jory had never been close with Alistair in the first place. And Tam... well, he still talked to Alistair, but only when Alistair talked to him first. He'd gone really quiet since the accident, and seemed to prefer spending time with the hounds and the horses to people. Rumour was the stable master was thinking of making him a dog boy, but then rumour also always said the dog boys were a little strange anyway, living as closely with their charges as if they were another hound. As far as Alistair had ever seen the dog boys were just like the stable boys – busy with their charges, and just as prone to mischief. And they had their own dormitory, just like the stable boys. Technically they were also stable boys, anyway, just with a more dedicated focus on the valuable hounds.

As far as the other stable boys were concerned, the ones that had never been part of Simon's group, and the ones that had been hired on new since the deaths of the three boys that summer, Alistair was just that too-small, too-uppity boy that the Arl showed far too much favour too. The only thing that kept them from picking on him more about the addition of the reading lessons to his day was his well-established reputation of someone it was safer to leave alone. And so they mainly did just exactly that... left him alone.

It hurt, that the place he'd started to feel like he belonged in, the people he'd come to think himself one of, now excluded him just as much as everyone else did. He wondered if he'd ever really have a place where he was accepted, a place where he _belonged_.

Small wonder the Arl wanted him to keep his father's identity a secret; things were bad enough for him with people thinking he was, at best, a random bastard, and at worst the Arl's bastard. If they knew he was _the king's_ bastard... no, it didn't even bear thinking about.

He heard the dinner gong ring, and quickly abandoned his nest in the straw. Things could be worse, he reminded himself as he hurried down the ladder from the loft. At least he had a place, a roof over his head and plenty of good food to eat. At least the Arl was kind to him, even when he didn't have to be.

He just wished he could stop wishing for _more_.


	5. Rumours

She was angry with him again, scowling furiously, arms crossed over her bosom as she sat in bed, propped up by a mound of lacy-covered white pillows. She was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, even with her golden-brown eyes glinting with anger and her brow drawn down in a scowl so fierce it was wrinkling the skin between her finely arched brows. It was her beauty he remembered most, from when he'd first encountered her.

She'd been little more then a child then, a tiny chestnut-haired sprite in a pretty dress, still far too much the child for him to have noticed if not for her imperious manner and the strong Orlesian accent that marked her as one of _them_ , not one of his fellow Fereldans, as she commanded him to move out of her path. Then she'd tripped on something, fallen, tearing her dress and scraping her palm in the process, before bursting into tears. She was far too young to blame for the crimes of the Orlesians, so he'd stopped, comforted her, washed and bandaged her scraped palm. By which time the maidservant and guardsman she'd slipped away from had caught up to her, and drew her away with much scolding. There was only the curtest of thanks, accompanied by very suspicious glares, as his reward. Then she'd looked back at him and smiled shyly as they led her away, her face brilliant for a moment with her gratitude for his momentary kindness, and he'd smiled back, feeling well enough rewarded for his good deed.

It was only later that he learned she was Isolde, the youngest daughter of the Orlesian lordling who still squatted like a toad in his father's castle, the man he had sworn to remove when word of his father's death at West Hill had reached Teagan and himself in the Free Marches. Years, it had taken, to recover Redcliff from the Orlesians; the death of Meghren had only firmed their resolve to hold onto what parts of Ferelden they still controlled, and Redcliffe was easily one of the most defensible positions in the entire kingdom, perched on its offshore aerie as it was. Years, during which he had other chance encounters with the girl, had seen her progress from imperious sprite to mischievous young woman, growing into the beauty that had been visible even in her immature features. At some point he'd realized she had a crush on him. At some even later point he realized he'd fallen in love with her, with her sharp wit and fiery temper and beautiful smile.

He'd won back Redcliffe, and after holding her and her family for a year while Orlais negotiated their ransom and return to Orlesian soil... she'd defied her family, and told them she was staying. That Redcliffe was her home, for good or ill. He'd refused to have anything to do with her, at first – she was _Orlesian_ , and worst of all, daughter of the very man who'd profited from his own father's misfortunes. Every time their paths crossed they seemed to end up arguing about something, and more then once he told her she should have returned to Orlais with her family - was more then welcome to do so, that he would happily provide her an escort to remove her irritating presence from his demesne.

And more years had passed, and not a single young noble daughter of proper Ferelden lineage had ever been able to shift the sharp-tongued chestnut-haired young woman from his mind's eye and his heart. Finally he'd given in to the inevitable, a full eight years after that first fateful meeting on the path. She was a young beauty of twenty-two, he a dashing slightly older man of twenty-eight. As unhappy as many were that he'd married an _Orlesian_ bride, there'd at least been some relief that he finally _had_ married, and would hopefully soon produce an heir to take the place of his younger brother Teagan and truly secure the Guerrin line.

Isolde had become pregnant several times in the years since their marriage, and lost every child, most so early that there was only a missed cycle or two to show for it, some late enough to have been heart-breaking for both of them. He had refused to try again at one point, refused to touch her for a full three years, frightened of how close to death she'd come, loosing an eight-months child that would have been a son for them, had it lived. He'd even considered putting her aside, for the sake of her own health, though the thought of looking to marry any other woman than she was sheerest agony; he knew he could not do it. He loved her far too much.

And then she'd seduced him back into their marriage bed, and now she was pregnant again, and his biggest fear, his _only_ fear, was that this pregnancy would kill her. She was no longer as young or resilient as she'd been; better if she'd had children for them when she was still young, not as a mature woman of thirty. Even a successful pregnancy was dangerous at that age, and with her history of failures... well, he had the best healer he could find on hand, and Isolde was under strict orders to follow the woman's instructions to the letter. All he could do was hope and pray. And hope that she'd forgive him for whatever had currently won him her ire.

He held out his hand, letting it rest palm upwards on the sheet near her hip. "What's wrong," he asked gently.

"That _boy_ ," she spat, then turned her face from him. "Did you think I would not hear, locked away here as I am? Would not know that you have once again have shown him special favour!"

"Special fav... Oh. The lessons."

"Yes, the _lessons_. What need does a stable boy have to _read_ , Eamon?"

Eamon frowned. "I am sorry, my dear, but I had no choice..."

"No choice? No _choice_!" she exclaimed angrily, turning to look at him, sitting upright in bed. "Oh, Eamon, every time you show this boy preference, it starts the rumours all over again. That he is more then just the orphan of a castle maid, that _he_ is your son! The son that _I_ have never been able to give you..." she broke off, tears spilling over.

"Isolde! No!" he exclaimed, anguished over her pain and once again cursing that he was forbidden to share word of Alistair's true parentage with her. _He_ trusted her discretion, but Maric and Loghain – especially Loghain, whom Maric _would_ listen to, even when he perversely ignored the advice of better men – had been concerned that she might let word of it slip to her family in Orlais, after which it would cease being a secret. "I promise you, Alistair is _not_ my son..."

"Don't you see, it doesn't matter if I believe you!" she exclaimed, distraught. "All that matters is that _others_ believe he is. I hear them speak, visiting ladies, the maids, even the guards... that the fault in our childlessness so clearly lies with me, that you should set me aside, that..."

" _No!_ " Eamon thundered. Then reached out, taking her by both hands. Lowered his voice. "No, Isolde. I refuse to let my life be swayed by the rumour-mongering of the ignorant, the malicious, and the common rabble. Do you think I don't hear rumours, too? And worse then just that the brat is my son – according to _rumour_ , my nephew is no son of Maric. According to _rumour_ , I am a skirt-chasing libertine. According to _rumour_ , I am regularly cuckolded by my brother Teagan."

Isolde stared at him in shock, then suddenly burst into laughter. "What! _ME!_ And _Teagan_! But he is such a boy, why would I even think of someone like him!" she exclaimed.

Eamon raised an eyebrow. "He _is_ only one year your junior, my dear," he dryly pointed out. "Scarcely a child."

Isolde snorted, and then smiled, her good humour restored. "He _is_ a child – not in body, no, I suppose he is quite well-grown now but, come, Eamon – even you must admit he is still sometimes as impetuous as a boy half his age. Look at how he insisted on going along with those fishermen this past summer, as happy for adventure as a child."

Eamon smiled. "He is impetuous, and young at heart," he admitted. "I sometimes envy him that – he missed the worst of the dark times, here in Ferelden, and has a sunnier temperament then I as a result."

"And _that_ is why I love you, and cannot imagine beginning to love someone like him," she said simply, smiling at him again. "You and I both saw the dark times together, even if from... different viewpoints. And came through them. I give thanks every day that we found each other, and I would not trade you for one hundred Teagans."

Eamon gave a shout of laughter. "Maker! One hundred Teagans... no, I would rather not imagine what they would get up to," he said, smiling warmly at her, then lifted her hand and kissed it. "And I give thanks daily too, for you in my life. Do not think I could ever put you aside!" he exclaimed, voice cracking for a moment.

Isolde smiled warmly at him, then patted the mattress beside her. "Come, join me," she said softly.

"Isolde!" he exclaimed, shocked.

"What? Cannot a wife wish to be held by her husband for a while? I am not glass, Eamon – I will not break so easily. And I miss you so, my darling."

Eamon snorted, but allowed himself to be cajoled into lying down on the bed beside her, arm around her shoulders, her head resting on his chest, hand over his heart. He felt a deep contentment steal over him, lying there with her in his arms. He realized once again how much he loved his tempestuous Orlesian wife; she was truly the only woman for him. All others paled in comparison to her.

She sighed after a while. "Eamon... can you not send the boy away?" she asked softly. "Perhaps if he was gone, the rumours would finally go away as well..."

Eamon sighed deeply. "I cannot do that, my dear," he said, voice pained with having to deny her. "I promised his father I would raise him. Please, do not ask this of me."

She frowned, but dropped the point, and just lay there, toying with the frogs on the front of his doublet, until she finally drifted off to sleep again. He extracted himself from her arms with difficulty, gently tucking the white linen sheet around her rounded form before returning downstairs to the work waiting for him in his study.

Dear Andraste, let her survive this pregnancy. With or without the child, he little cared, so long as _she_ lived...


	6. A Journey to Denerim

It was an abominable time of year to be travelling. The snow was already deep on the ground, the winds biting cold. But he'd been given little choice in the matter; a letter had arrived toward the end of Firstfall, a letter from Maric. He'd been relieved to see it, at first, having heard no word from his king since that distinctly frosty letter back in early Kingsway, requiring him to have Alistair educated.

It had opened well enough, without the cold tone of the previous letter, but then its contents had sunk in; the king wished him to attend this year's First Day celebrations in Denerim. Arl Urien was hosting a special three-day festivity at his estate, in part to celebrate the coming of age of his son, Vaughan, to which several eminent families had been invited. The king himself, as well as his heir, would be attending. He'd requested that Urien favour him by extending an invitation to the Guerrins as well, ostensibly so that Prince Cailan could spend some time with his maternal uncles over the holiday. Which would have been all well and good if not for the postscript, scrawled in Maric's blocky script on a separate slip of parchment – "Bring the boy."

Caring for their mounts during the winter trip would have been a good pretext to bring the boy along, if not for his youth; he was too small and slight to act as a groom. So Eamon had needed to come up with a reason for why he was bringing both a groom _and_ a very small stable boy along. Thankfully the nature of the festivities had provided him with a tenuous excuse; the boy was tasked with caring for a puppy being brought along as a gift for Arl Urien's son – not a mabari, of course, that would have been far too valuable a gift, but a young dog out of one of the Arl's best sighthound bitches. The puppy was energetic enough that assigning it a full-time keeper on the trip was wiser than not.

The brat had at least been doing a good job of caring for the dog; glancing at him trailing along on the rough-coated pony he'd been assigned for the trip, Eamon could see the puppy's head poking out of the open neck of the boy's jacket, eyes bright and attentive as he craned around to look at everything. Alistair had an intent look on his face, one hand cupping its wriggling hindquarters through his layers of clothing, the other maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the front of his pony's saddle. The pony ambled along, unconcerned by the snow or the burden on its back, lead rein keeping it following along placidly behind the groom's horse.

Eamon frowned and looked to the front again. Isolde had been less then pleased at his departure for Denerim. He wasn't happy about it either; he wouldn't have voluntarily left her side right now, not with her six months gone in pregnancy and unhappy about the months of confinement to bed she'd already endured. But his King had requested it, and that left him little choice. She'd been further displeased when she'd heard that the boy was to accompany him; their parting conversation had been rather cooler then he liked, as a result.

He just hoped that Maric wouldn't require him to linger in Denerim beyond the end of the festivities at the Arl of Denerim's estate; he'd like to get this business over with and be headed back to Redcliffe as quickly as he could.

* * *

Alistair was cold and tired when they finally came in sight of Denerim, but his jaw gaped open as they rounded the last turn out of the forested hills southwest of the city, and looked across the plain to where it crouched at the mouth of the Drakon river, Dragon's Peak rising to one side of it. He'd never imagined any place so big. You could have picked up Redcliffe – castle, island, village and all – and dropped it within the city walls, and lost sight of it. Nor had he ever seen anything as impressive as the Fort Drakon tower, casting a shadow over the city at its feet like the gnomon on a sundial, though he'd heard that Kinloch Hold, at the north end of Lake Calenhad, was even more impressive. But he'd never seen that as more then a hair-fine line almost lost on the northern horizon on exceptionally clear days, while the awe-inspiring height of _this_ tower was quite clearly visible from where they rode.

His fascination with the approaching city was enough to make him forget how cold he was for a while, as they followed the road down the hillside, then eastwards along the river to the city gates. The city walls were another wonder to him, rising more than twice the height of Castle Redcliffe's curtain wall, only a few of the highest rooftops and a haze of smoke visible over their towering height.

And then they were in the city, following the cobblestone streets, surrounded by the sights and sounds and stinks of the city. They turned south, crossed over the river on a massive stone bridge, then wound up the hill to where the palace and the estate of the Arl of Denerim perched, overshadowed only by the rising bulk of Fort Drakon and Dragon's Peak beyond.

They'd barely entered the courtyard of Arl Urien's estate before the Arl himself was hurrying out the front door to welcome Eamon, servants bustling around to help with his luggage – thankfully he had little enough of that. He kept his manservant, two guards and Alistair with him, and ordered his remaining guards and the groom to head back down into the city to his own estate near the market, where they would stay until he was ready to return home to Redcliffe. Alistair and the puppy were quickly led off to the estate's own stable, Eamon's servant and guards dispatched to the rooms provided for him by his host, and Eamon himself led off by Urien to the great hall to have a warming drink of mulled wine.

He was pleased to learn from Urien that his brother Teagan had arrived just a few hours ahead of him, and would be sharing the same suite of rooms as himself. They entered the great hall to find several of Urien's guests already gathered there – Bann Sighard and his son Oswyn, Arl Bryland with his wife and their tiny daughter Habren, a precocious child with dark brown hair and bright green eyes busy wandering in endless circles in front of the fireplace, and Teagan, sipping at a goblet of the promised mulled wine himself, who smiled happily and rose to his feet as Eamon and Urien entered.

The brothers exchanged a warm embrace, Eamon taking a seat by his side and accepting a goblet of warm spiced wine as well, and then spent a pleasant few hours talking with Urien, Sighard and Bryland. It was drawing close to dinner time when a servant came in to inform Urien of another arrival. He hurried out, and soon returned with Teryn Bryce and his son Fergus in tow.

"Has Eleanor not accompanied you?" Bryland's wife asked, looking disappointed at the Teryna's absence.

"I'm afraid not, our youngest has taken a bad cold, and we judged it better for the two of them to remain in Highever rather then risk travelling in winter," Bryce apologized as he too accepted a goblet and a seat. Fergus caught sight of Oswyn, and the two boys soon had moved off to a corner, and had their heads together, talking quietly so as not to disturb their elders.

Altogether it was one of the more enjoyable gatherings Eamon had been at in some time, though he'd have enjoyed it more if he'd had Isolde at his side, and the Alistair brat well out of both sight and mind.

* * *

Alistair tiredly followed the groom who'd been told off to see him and the puppy to the kennels. He was already missing the reassuring presence of Kevin, the groom from Redcliffe. What if he did something wrong, and the puppy took sick? He'd been so excited when Arl Eamon had entrusted the care of the young hound to him, so excited to see Denerim, but it would all be spoiled if he messed up. But surely the grooms and stable master here were as knowledgeable about hounds as the staff back in Redcliffe – he could always ask for help if he thought he needed it. He just really hoped he wouldn't need it.

He almost bumped into the groom as the man came to a sudden stop just inside the stable doors, a second, taller and much broader man with a scar running from cheek to cheek right across a misshapen nose walking over to scowl down at the pair of them.

"Who is this?" he asked, scowling down at Alistair.

"Arl Eamon's dog boy... has a puppy, supposed to be a gift for the young master later," the groom explained.

"A puppy for Vaughan, eh? Let me see the whelp," the man ordered.

Alistair nodded, and fumbled at his jacket and shirt with cold-numbed fingers, trying to open both enough to get at the puppy, which had fallen into an exhausted sleep curled around his stomach.

The man snorted, then crouched down, brushing Alistair's hand aside and gently undoing the jacket, then helped Alistair support the dog as he tugged Alistair's shirt free of his leggings. The puppy stirred and kicked as it was removed from its warm cocoon, opening its dark brown eyes and looking around to see what was going on.

"Oh, now that's a handsome little lad," the man crooned, his pleased soft tone at odds with his hard-bitten appearance as he cupped the puppy in his hands, running one hand soothingly down the fur of its silver-grey back as he gave it a quick but thorough examination. "And like to grow into a good strong smart dog some day, hrmmm? Looks like you've done a fine job of keeping him fed and warm on the trip here," he added, taking in the puppy's bright eyes and healthy appearance.

Alistair smiled, pleased at the praise. "Our stable master told me to keep him in my shirt," he confessed.

The man smiled. "Aye, Matthew knows more then a few tricks about dog care," he said. "I'll be pleased to have a dog of his breeding to add into our own bloodlines here, especially one as fine as this fellow will likely grow up to be. Here, take him back, and we'll find a pen for the pair of you to stay in while you're here."

Alistair nodded and followed the man away, further into the stables, then down a cross-corridor and through a door into a large room full of pens and runs and dogs. There were only a few of the prized mabari hounds, the Arl's tastes apparently running more to fleet hunting hounds then the massive war dogs. The stable master introduced Alistair to the groom and dog boys in charge of the kennels, found a pen for boy and dog to share, and headed off again.

The groom and dog boys crowded around the pen, all wanting to see the latest addition, and were soon off into long complicated arguments about the puppy's conformation and likely temperament, along with anecdotes about their own hounds, and what little they'd heard of Arl Eamon's particularly fine sighthounds over the years. Alistair made himself at home in the straw, sitting down with his back wedged into one corner and watching the puppy scurry around, exploring its new home, answering whatever questions he could about the dog's ancestry and health, though he had to plead ignorance more often than not.

The warmth of the room soon had him starting to nod off, and finally the groom ordered the rest of the boys back to work, and smiled down at Alistair. "You look about done in," he said. "Go to sleep – I'll have one of the boys bring dinner for you and the pup later. And a blanket, it gets cold in here at night."

Alistair nodded, and curled up in the straw, feeling content and very, very tired. The puppy came over and curled up against his stomach, craning its head around to lick his chin companionably before lowering its long elegant head to its forepaws. Both quickly dropped off to sleep.


	7. The Dog Boy

Arl Urien laid a good table at least, even if the guest rooms here weren't as comfortable as those to be found at his own estate, Eamon found himself thinking as he made breakfast selections from the lengthy sideboard. He carried his plate over to the table, settling in with his brother Teagan on one side of him, the Cousland boy – Fergus, that was it – to the other. Teagan was, unfortunately, already involved in conversation with Arl Bryland's wife – Eamon never could remember the woman's name – so he strove to make polite conversation with Fergus instead.

"Your father said something last night about sending you travelling this spring?" he asked politely, as he cut a smoked fish into small pieces, carefully removing all the tiny bones from each fragment before eating it.

"Yes," Fergus said, smiling, a look of pleased anticipation on his face. "Trade is very important to Highever, and my father is sending me on a tour to visit our factors in several countries, so I can meet them personally and gain some familiarity with the various cultures they work within. I'll be heading north and east on this first trip, to Dairsmuid in Rivain, and both Antiva City and Rialto in Antiva. It will likely be some time next winter before I'm home again; as long a trip as it is from here to Rivain and Antiva, father feels I should spend at least a few weeks time at each stop. And then the next year he plans to send me west, to Orlais and Nevarre, with a stop at Kirkwall in the Free Marches on the way home."

That led to Eamon talking about his own several years in the Free Marches, between when his father had sent himself and Teagan there to safety, to his return to Ferelden after the stunning triumph of Maric's forces at River Dane, in order to assist in ousting the remaining Orlesians. The Fergus boy mildly impressed Eamon by actually asking mature, intelligent questions of him about his time there and his years ousting the Orlesian family that later became his in-laws, and listening attentively to his answers. Overall he had a surprisingly pleasant time talking to the young man, and hoped his own heir would prove to be as promising someday.

Directly after the meal there was another influx of guests, the Howe family having arrived from nearby Vigil's Keep. Arl Rendon and Arlessa Yvonne's children all took strongly after their mother, with her dark black hair and cold grey eyes. The two younger also took after her in looks, only the eldest, Nathaniel, showing some trace of his father's long features instead of Yvonne's more heart-shaped features. They had barely settled in when the final guests arrived from the nearby palace – King Maric, his faithful shadow Teryn Loghain, and their children, Prince Cailan and Anora, Cailan as usual following the pretty blond girl around like a mabari hoping for a treat, Anora seemingly indifferent to his presence.

Arl Eamon did his best to hide his dislike for Loghain as he took his turn greeting the pair. He'd never felt that the common-born Teryn really belonged in the councils of the nobles, no matter how well he'd supposedly done in the rebellion. He often wondered how much of what was credited to Loghain had truly been done by him, and how much was him taking credit for the work of others; so many talented commanders had died in the long war, after all, who could really say what tactics had been Loghain's, what the work of more able nobles.

Eamon had been quite pleased that the ex-farmer had sensibly kept to his own lands of Gwaren for so long. And then Eamon's sister, Queen Rowan, had died of a wasting sickness, and suddenly Loghain had become Maric's indispensable right-hand man, spending all his time in Denerim rather then Gwaren.

As he moved away from the pair, Eamon idly wondered if there was anything... _unnatural_ in their closeness. Then dismissed the idea; there'd never been even a breath of that sort of scandal about either of the pair, and he knew Maric was a womanizer. Lips compressed slightly at the thought – he had the evidence of it parked out in Arl Urien's stables, after all.

* * *

It was early afternoon, the children and young adults off watching one of the entertainments arranged for them by Urien – a puppet show – while their noble parents enjoyed some quiet time, some having retired to their rooms, some gathered to drink and talk in the great hall. Eamon was not in the least surprised when Maric invited him to join him on a slow walk around the halls of estate, ostensibly to settle his lunch. He nodded agreement, the two passing out of the great hall and strolling down a wide corridor in the direction of the guest rooms, Loghain a silent presence some steps behind them, politely out of earshot but presumably close enough to leap to Maric's defence if assassins should materialize out of the woodwork. Really, the man's paranoia was almost comical, when it wasn't, as now, absolutely infuriating.

Maric wisely remained silent until they were in a long stretch of hall unbroken by any door, no one in sight but the three of them.

"I would like to see the boy," Maric said, softly. "You have brought him, as I asked?"

"Yes," Eamon said, coldly. "My lord, this is not wise, nor is it kind to the lad, now that you've had me reveal his true parentage to him. You will only awaken... inappropriate wishes, certainly for him, possibly for yourself as well. More, showing any interest in the boy at all may well set thoughts in motion in others that will eventually reveal to them that he is your bastard. After all I have endured to keep it secret..."

King Maric abruptly stopped, gave Arl Eamon a questioning look. "What do you mean?" he asked neutrally. "Endured what?"

Eamon blew a sharp snort of distaste out his nose before continuing. "I _mean_ , my King, that tongues will always find something to wag about, and my taking in the child all those years ago led to more then a few rumours that he was _mine_. I am sure you can imagine the distress this has caused my lady wife over the years since, especially as I was specifically _forbidden_ to tell her his true parentage. I have hope she does believe me when I assure her that Alistair is not my son, but having rumours of that sort thrown in her face during all the years we have been childless ourselves... it has been very difficult, for both of us."

King Maric actually had the grace to wilt slightly. "I... know I owe you more then I can repay, for having taken him in," he finally said, and resumed walking. "But I must see him, at least once. It... bothers me, that I have never set eyes on the boy since putting him in your hands. Can you not arrange some discrete, unremarkable way for me to see him? From a distance, if not closer?"

Eamon sighed, then frowned in thought. "It... may be possible," he agreed after a while. "Ask me about dogs this evening – my sighthounds in particular. My excuse for bringing the boy along was to have him tend a puppy that I will be gifting to young Vaughan tomorrow; taking you to view it should give you a chance to see the boy."

King Maric nodded, looking pleased, fine smile lines appearing at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. "Thank you, Eamon," he said softly. "We should return to the great hall," he added, turning his footsteps that way.

Eamon nodded and trailed along in his wake, already considering how he could best see to it that, while the king saw the boy, the boy would not see the king.

* * *

There was a good stew for dinner, a thick pottage of barley and beef, eaten with equal interest by the dog boys and the dogs. They fed the dogs first, of course, then the dog boys gathered in a large unused pen that served as their common room – no separate loft for them, they slept in among their charges – and ate their share. They'd made Alistair welcome among them, and he felt very happy as he sat along the side of the pen, plate of stew cradled on his lap, eating and talking and laughing along with the others.

The approach of footsteps made them quiet down. Alistair was surprised to recognize the man who walked along the row of pens, peering around as if looking for someone. The Arl's manservant, carrying something carefully in both hands.

"Alistair?" the man called nervously, shying to one side as a dog growled at his presence.

"I'm here," he said, putting his plate aside in the straw and rising to his feet. The man smiled, looking relieved, and walked over.

"There you are," he acknowledged. "The Arl sent me to say that he was very pleased with your care of the puppy on the trip from Redcliffe, and he's sent this for you and the other boys to share as a treat for the holiday."

He held out what he carried, and Alistair's eyes widened at the sight of the gently steaming thick-walled clay pitcher of mulled wine, richly redolent of honey, citrus peel and spices. Soft exclamations from the watching dog boys made it clear they were impressed by Arl Eamon's thoughtful generosity; even with all the warm bodies packed into it, the kennel was still cold enough to see your breath on the air. Alistair stammered out thanks for the manservant to pass on to the Arl from all of them, accepting the heavy pitcher from his hands. The man nodded and turned away, hurrying away from the noisome kennels and back to his proper environs.

They had no cups, so the boys settled for passing the heavy pitcher around from hand to hand, drinking carefully from the pinched spout. They were all pink-cheeked and giggly by the time they'd finished it. Clearing up from supper, then seeing the dogs properly bedded down for the night before they found their own nests in the straw, involved a lot more hilarity and yawning then it usually did. For once they didn't remain awake, talking, after finding their spots – they were all sleeping peacefully within a remarkably short period of time.

* * *

Arl Eamon kept Arl Urien engaged in light banter, as they led Maric and his shadow Loghain through the darkened kennel. Here and there eyes glinted at them strangely, reflecting the light of the lantern Urien was carrying, but the dogs remained quiet, most of them deeply asleep themselves. The few wakeful ones recognized at least some of the men walking through their midst, and the intrusion didn't seem to have disturbed their boys, so they remained quietly watchful rather then raising an alarm. Arl Eamon was glad that Urien was far enough gone in his cups not to notice anything unusual about how soundly all the dog boys were sleeping.

"Ah, here he is," Eamon said, stopping beside a pen. "He's a well-formed dog, isn't he? If the bitch hadn't whelped three others just like him, I'd have sorely regretted giving him up."

The men crowded around, only Loghain hanging back, his eyes ever watchful on their shadowed surroundings.

The puppy looked up from where it was curled up against Alistair's stomach, gazing at the three men hanging over the low wall of the pen out of dark brown eyes. Its tail thumped once against the straw, narrowly missing the boy's side-turned face, and it rose and trotted neatly over to the side, rising on hind legs to stretch up and sniff at then lick Eamon's outstretched hand.

The young dog stood there a few minutes, one paw pressed against the pen's side, other curled elegantly by its narrow chest, while the three men made much of it. It nervously endured the touch when Arl Urien ran a hand down its back, exclaiming over what a fine hound it was, and saying that he'd make sure to impress on young Vaughan what a valuable addition it would be to their bloodlines. Maric leaned down as well, scratching at the dog's ears, which set it into an ecstatic wriggling, tongue lolling out, tail wagging so furiously its entire hind end was swaying from side to side.

Urien was thankfully oblivious to which way the King's eyes were looking when he softly spoke. "Yes, a very fine boy indeed," he said, eyes avidly examining the small form sprawled sleeping in the straw nearby. Alistair rolled over in his sleep, his face peaceful in the flickering lantern light, a slight sigh parting his lips as he settled again, now flat on his back instead of curled on his side. "Thank you for showing him to me, Eamon."

"My pleasure, my lord. Come, we should go back, I'm sure the Arl's other guests are beginning to wonder where we've all vanished off to."

Maric nodded, and gave the dog a final pat, leaning on the wall for just a moment longer before turning to follow the pair of Arls away. Behind him, Loghain stepped to the wall, looked over. He leaned down a moment, smiling just slightly as he touched the upraised slender silver-grey head, giving the dog a quick scratch under the chin before straightening again.

The puppy, sensing the visitation was finished, turned and walked back over to the boy's side. Alistair had one arm flung up over his head, the other draped across his stomach. The hound curled up against his side, long legs folding up into a surprisingly small space, its head resting on his tummy along the edge of his hand, and closed its dark eyes once again.

Loghain turned and walked away, following his king.


	8. Gifts

**This chapter is more about the other young versions of characters we encounter later then about Eamon and Alistair. I just couldn't resist having a glimpse into their thoughts and lives after getting them all conveniently gathered together in one place like this. The update kind of ran away from (or with!) me and is rather lengthier then I originally thought it would end up. Enjoy!**

* * *

Vaughan frowned as he looked across the room at the small group of older teens talking together and enjoying themselves in the corner near the fireplace. Cailan and Anora sat at the centre of the little group, Anora composed, back properly upright and hands clasped in her lap, an amused smile quirking her lips as she listened to whatever tale Cailan, seated to her right, was telling that had them all so enthralled. Fergus was on the second bench, to Anora's left, leaning back, long legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest, a grin on his face as he too listened. Nathaniel was next to him, sitting cross-legged on the bench, whittling on something, a frown of concentration on his face as shavings of wood fell to litter his lap and the bench and floor around him. Then he looked up for a moment, hands dropping laxly to rest on his knees while he listened to Cailan speak, a sudden brief smile lighting his face before he shook his head in disbelieving amusement and returned to his whittling. Even Oswyn, just a year older then himself, was over there, lying sprawled on the floor to Cailan's right, all gangly limbs and too-big hands and hair sticking up in all directions like an exploded haystack, clearly accepted by the others as part of their group.

He was _of age_ now, fourteen, old enough to marry if he and his father wished it, and he was stuck over here with the little kids. It just wasn't fair. He turned his back on the gathering, looking sullenly at his own companions. Habren had been looking more then half asleep for a while, and he wasn't surprised to see she was gone now, carried off by her nursemaid for a nap, leaving him with just Thomas and Delilah. He frowned. This was _boring_. And it was _his_ special day today, he shouldn't be bored, not when they were all here because of him.

"I'm _bored_ ," he muttered, knowing his parents would not approve of him saying so in front of their guests. It was bad of him to do so, he knew. Little boys – _young men_ , he reminded himself – should be polite and pleasant and quiet at all times, and never, ever complain. A rule his father _always_ upheld, punishing him the few times he'd ever accidentally or intentionally broken it. The thought of his father's displeasure if he had heard those two simple words made him feel scared and racked with guilt for a moment. And then, as he realized that there was no way his father could know he'd said them, an illicit little thrill, at getting away with something _bad_.

"What?" Delilah asked, looking up at him curiously.

He bit his lip, not quite daring to repeat the words. Then, to his shock, Thomas used the very words he had a moment before.

"I'm bored," Thomas said. "Isn't there anything fun we could do?"

Vaughan blinked, secretly shocked – and again, feeling that secret thrill – at the boy's complaint. Especially when Delilah seemed to think nothing of it, but just frowned in thought, then shrugged. "We could play outside?" she suggested. "Make a snowman?"

Thomas and Vaughan exchanged equally disgusted looks. Making a snowman - that was what _kids_ did, not young men and older boys. Vaughan graciously decided that he would accept Thomas as being a _young man_ too, not just a boy, even if he was still a half year shy of also being of age.

"We could throw snowballs," Vaughan suggested, then hastily clarified. "At a target. Not each other."

Thomas nodded, and the two rose to their feet and left the room, Delilah trailing along after them.

* * *

Anora fought to keep her face composed. It was hard, with all four of the boys seeming determined to make her blush. Even young Osywn had joined in on it, though he was blushing much more at his own gently teasing words then _she_ ever would. Really, you'd think the four – Cailan, especially – would remember who her father was, and suspect that she was not some easily flustered, sheltered, shrinking violet of a noblewoman.

Cailan was the worst of the group, precisely because he knew her so well. It was the hardest to keep her expression placid when he began teasing her. And then, under cover of leaning forward, voice dropping low as he told some particularly salacious bit of his current story, he slid his hand down behind her, cupped his hand around her lower ribs, and _tickled_ her. She sat bolt upright and gasped, then turned red with anger, which of course the other three interpreted as a _blush_ , not anger.

She rose to her feet, and turned a cold gaze on Cailan. "Enough of this," she told him. "I think we are wasting too much of a fine day sitting around indoors, talking."

Cailan grinned as he rose to his feet. He suspected what was going to come next, even if the other three, who knew her less well, didn't. "And what does my lady suggest?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit. "Weapon's practise."

Cailan's eyebrow rose just slightly. "I fear my armour is all at the palace," he said. "And my weapons."

"Never fear, I am sure you can locate suitable practise armour and weapons in Arl Urien's armoury," she pointed out coolly. "Or you can send a servant for your own things. I will see you all out in the practise yard in half an hour, my lords," she added, giving all four young men a commanding look before sweeping out of the room, clearly expecting them to obey her suggestion.

* * *

Cailan knew Anora well enough that he did send a servant running over to the palace for his armour, a simple set of heavy steel chainmail that his father had said they'd have to replace with his first set of real plate soon, once he stopped growing up and out so alarmingly quickly. His growth did seem to have slowed significantly over the last few months, so he had hopes to be in plate mail before next Wintermarch. Maybe even by summer.

Nathaniel and Fergus both had their own armour and arms here, and headed off to their suites to change, while Cailan took Oswyn to the armoury and helped him select and change into a set of splintmail. "You're almost as tall as I am already," he observed, looking the boy over. "Once you've put on some muscle you're going to be formidable."

Oswyn grinned. "So my father tells me," he said agreeably. "He keeps reminding me that I need to fill out as well as shooting up. I keep telling him I will, just as soon as my body decides to stop turning food into additional height."

Cailan laughed. His manservant arrived with his own armour just then, and the two of them helped him to arm as well, then Oswyn selected a sword – a good-sized two-hander, which he handled as easily as if it was little more in size then a longsword. He might be skinny still, but he was certainly fit. Cailan tried to picture him a few years older, filled out to match his height, with a weapon like that, or worse... frightening!

They headed out to the practise yard, and found Fergus and Nathaniel already there waiting for them, Fergus in heavy chain with his sword and a light shield bearing the Highever crest, a helm under one arm, laughing as he talked to Nathaniel. Nathaniel was leaning against the wall, a tolerate smile on his face, a pair of daggers slung low on his hips, hands clasped loosely around an unstrung bow stave. Cailan momentarily envied the two their obvious friendship; he had no really close male friends. Not like that, anyway. Fergus and Nathaniel were building on an existing friendship of their father's, and had the added closeness brought by the knowledge that Nathaniel would some day be Fergus' vassal.

A scuffing sound in the passageway from the house made the four turn to look. Anora emerged into the wan winter sunshine, dressed in dark, tight-fitting leathers, a long sword and dagger at her hips, a strung bow across her back, hair neatly up in the coiled braids she preferred when wanting her otherwise quite lengthy hair out of the way. Cailan grinned, little doubting from their expressions that at least two of the other three had not realized she intended to practise with them, not just watch – Fergus, at least, perhaps due to his own mother's martial reputation, looked very little surprised at the sight of her in armour.

"Well, gentlemen?" she said. "How shall we begin?"

* * *

Nathaniel had been surprised at first to see Anora as armoured as they were, but it took only a thought to remind himself of whom her father was, and realize that _of course_ she'd be reasonably well-trained in the fighting arts. By the almost idiotic grin on Cailan's face, the prince had expected her to show up dressed like this, and was enjoying the surprise to himself and to Oswyn. Fergus might have been surprised as well, he supposed, but if he had been, he covered it well. Much better then Oswyn, who'd frankly gaped upon seeing her.

He straightened up. "Archery first," he suggested. "Our aim will be better when half of us aren't exhausted from dancing around in heavy armour."

Anora nodded, eyes lighting. "Good point. Though it would also be interesting to see who can still shoot accurately when tired from fighting, though I fear you and I would have the advantage there."

The others agreed, and there was a brief wait while Fergus, Cailan and Oswyn went and found themselves suitable bows from the armoury. While they did so, Nate and Anora checked that the archery butts were dusted free of snow and well-aligned, and paced off a series of lines in the snow from which everyone would shoot.

As the others rejoined them, Nate strung his bow, smiling at the familiar feel of the tension in the smooth wood. The five lined up along the first mark, selecting arrows and eyeing their targets. Nathaniel, anchoring one end of the line, glanced at the faces of the others as they prepared.

Oswyn was to his right, looking nervous. His grip on the bow was wrong, and it was a little too short for his height – the boy must be getting more training in sword work then in archery. Unsurprising, perhaps, given the size he seemed to be growing into.

Fergus stood beyond him, thoughtfully trying the pull on the unfamiliar bow, a slight frown on his face. Probably missing his own bow, Nate decided, well-knowing what a wicked archer the man was.

Cailan was next to him, still grinning cheerfully, and paying more attention to Anora then to his bow or the target, though at least he was handling it with reasonable skill and confidence.

Anora was pointedly ignoring Cailan's continued prattle, eyes coolly appraising the target, bow held in her hands as naturally as if it was an extension of herself. Dalish make, Nate thought, eyeing it enviously. But then, Loghain had been the commander of the infamous Night Elves, and their Teryn was heavily forested, likely home to several clans of the wandering elves; if anyone would have the contacts to acquire one of their bows, it would be Loghain.

When they all finally took their three shots, Nate wasn't surprised that he and Anora were closest to their bull's eyes. He was surprised that Cailan was the third-best shot, his three covering a slightly smaller area, closer to the mark then Fergus had managed. He suspected Fergus would have done better if he'd had his own bow, instead of one from the armoury. Oswyn had missed the butt entirely on his first shot, and his two subsequent shots were wide-spread, one near the edge of the outermost circle, the second almost in the bull's eye, but obviously by chance, not skill.

He retired to the sidelines, and the remaining four moved back to the next mark, and did another round of shots. Again Nate and Anora were best, but Fergus and Cailan were so close that they had to have the two fire a second round of three shots before deciding that Fergus had the tighter cluster. Cailan grinned and good-naturedly retired to the sidelines as well.

The next round was of course handily passed by Nate and Anora, Fergus going over to stand with Oswyn and Cailan as they watched the two drop back to the next mark.

They tied, their clusters so tightly packed around the bull's eye that it was impossible to say which was better.

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at Anora, meeting her amused smile, and solemnly dropped back another few paces in the snow. She nodded and did the same. Again they shot, and again they tied.

Anora was grinning now, the first time he'd seen her with so much expression on her face. "One arrow each," she said challengingly as they paced off another few steps. Nate nodded.

He was especially careful in choosing this arrow, as was Anora, both of them taking their time. The other three watched them in utter silence. Finally they set arrow to string, raised bows almost in unison, pulled... the faint snap of bowstrings releasing might have been a single sound, the thud of their paired arrows sinking in the targets the same. Nate drew a single long breath as Cailan bounded over to examine the targets, the other two following behind him. Heard Anora's matching inhalation, and exchanged a momentary look of perfect understanding with her.

The boys looked back and forth between the butts a couple of times, before Cailan turned, grinning happily at the pair of them, still standing at the far end of the yard, bows in hands. "Nate," he decreed in a carrying voice. "Your arrow is more fully in the eye then Anora's – though it's still damned close to even, and would have been heartshots both against a real target."

They nodded, and unstrung their bows in companionable silence.

* * *

Fergus frowned slightly as he faced off against the younger boy. The biggest danger in their spar, he judged, would be allowing for Oswyn's inexperience, so that he neither hurt nor was hurt by the boy. For all his size and the apparent ease with which he was wielding his massive weapon as he swung it through a series of warm-up moves, Oswyn was four years his junior – closer to five, really – and only just getting past the worst of the awkwardness from his recent growth spurt. Fergus would have preferred to spar with one of the other three, but he thought it was best that the most experienced fighter be partnered with the least experienced. Besides, he'd trained against several quite good two-handed fighters already, and he wasn't entirely sure if Cailan, the only other one of them in suitably heavy armour, ever had. And he _certainly_ didn't want to have either Nate or Anora facing that vicious blade with nothing but light leathers between them and it.

So Cailan was sparring with Nathaniel, while he took on Oswyn, and Anora sat this round out. He found himself feeling absurdly conscious of her gaze. Perhaps because he had so little opportunity to interact with female nobles his own age; between the occupation and the rebellion, and the years of mopping up even after the rebellion had turned so decisively against the Orlesians at River Dane, there was a decided dearth of noble children their age in Ferelden, and as chance would have it, they'd run largely to boys.

His father had already let him know that he would not object in the least if Fergus came home from his upcoming travels with a bride in tow – he'd have little enough choice of brides here in Ferelden, after all. Not unless he wanted to wait into his twenties or even thirties for the girls in the next generation or two to grow up to marriageable age, or marry a commoner. Which father had also said he wouldn't fight Fergus on if that was what Fergus someday decided he really did want, though he did point out how politically unwise it would be for one of the second-most-powerful families in the kingdom to completely ignore the few unattached noble females of the right age. Better foreign then common; their neighbours were less likely to choke on it. At least as long as she wasn't both foreign _and_ common, that would likely be rather too large a bite for them to swallow.

Realizing his mind had been wandering, Fergus sharply pulled it back to the present.

"Finished your warm-ups?" he asked Oswyn. The young man nodded, and they took up their stances, Fergus just slightly crouched behind his shield, long sword held warily out just a bit to the right, Oswyn balanced on the balls of his feet, sword cocked up over his left shoulder, casting a wary look over his opponent.

Fergus shifted his feet just a little, moved his sword just the slightest bit out of line, inviting attack. Without his facial expression changing in the least, Oswyn exploded into motion. Fergus bit back a curse as he fended off sword with sword and shield, before back-pedalling out of Oswyn's range. He'd underestimated the man's skill – he was _fast_ , too. Perhaps this fight was going to be rather more challenging then he'd thought it would be. He felt a grin crossing his face as he moved to the attack, saw a matching grin crossing Oswyn's face. After that, all that mattered was the fight, as swords and shield clashed and rang, sometimes drawing grunts or gasps of effort from the two.

* * *

Oswyn felt carefully at his lip.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Fergus asked, frowning down at him.

Oswyn checked his fingertips. A little blood, but nothing to worry about. He'd probably have a spectacular bruise later. It could have been much worse; when his foot had skidded on the snow-slicked cobbestones that way, sending the two of them crashing together, he'd been scared spitless that one or the other of them would skewer the other with their sword. Thankfully Fergus had managed to bat his descending sword aside, though it had thrown him enough off-balance as well that he'd had to throw out his arm to the side, the end result of which had been the edge of Fergus' shield clipping him in the mouth. Really, a split lip was a more then satisfactory end, compared to how it might have turned out.

"I'm okay," he said, realizing Fergus was still waiting for an answer. "Just a little shaken."

The older man nodded, looking relieved, and held out a hand, pulling him to his feet. They moved over to the sidelines, joining Nate, who'd already finished his spar with Cailan, and watched Cailan and Anora sparring.

"She's better with a bow," Nathaniel said after a couple of minutes.

Fergus grunted agreement. "Not bad with blades, either, but you're right, bow is more her weapon. Cailan's getting overconfident though, I'll bet she... ah, there she goes," he finished, sounding satisfied.

Oswyn couldn't follow what happened then, it was faster then he could make sense of, but it ended with Cailan flat on his back, laughing, sword halfway across the yard, and Anora's blade pointing at his throat. "Yield," she said, clearly.

Cailan grinned up at her. "I yield," he said agreeably.

A slow clapping made all five of them jump. They turned, to see that at some point they'd acquired an audience – King Maric and Teryn Loghain, the King looking amused, Loghain looking at Cailan with a rather dour expression. It was Loghain that was clapping. "Bravo, my prince," he said acidly. "You have once again fallen to my daughter's blades. I was quite sure I'd demonstrated the counter to that move sufficient times that even you should be able to remember it by now."

Cailan bounced to his feet, grinning unrepentantly. "I'm afraid her beauty distracts me far too much, my lord," he said. "I get lost in her flashing pretty blue eyes, and the next thing I know, I've lost to her flashing blades as well."

Cailan gave Anora a theatrical bow after completing this bit of flattery. Oswyn bit back a bark of laughter as Anora and Loghain gave the prince equally disgusted looks, and bit his lips, looking around to see Fergus' eyes glinting with amusement, and Nathaniel looking especially poker-faced.

"Then perhaps you need to practise it more against someone whose blue eyes will not distract you, my Prince," Loghain said, voice wintery, and drew his own longsword. "Anora. Lend me your dagger."

Anora wordlessly offered the dagger to her father, so that he was armed as she'd been, then walked over to join the others on the sidelines. Cailan looked nervously at Loghain, then at his father. Maric just grinned at him, shaking his head, and walked calmly over to stand with the youths.

Prince Cailan's face lost its usual lighthearted smile, a much grimmer, warier expression settling over it as he faced off against the Teryn.

"Errr... shouldn't your father put on armour first?" Oswyn worriedly asked Anora. It being a social occasion, the teryn was dressed in light clothing, not armour.

"He doesn't need it," she said confidently, eyes shining as she watched the pair. "Not against Cailan, certainly."

King Maric snorted in amusement, grin widening at her words, then nodded in agreement before turning his attention back to the pair.

The spar started off slowly, the two circling slowly, making little movements with sword, dagger, or shield, but not actually attacking. Not yet. A silence settled over the yard, broken only by the squelch and scuff of their boots across the slush-covered stones of the pavement.

"Whenever you're ready," Loghain drawled.

Cailan exploded into movement. Oswyn could only follow some of his moves, but Loghain countered all of them easily, fending off sword and shield with careless grace.

"No, boy, with the _edge_ , not the flat," Loghain said after a moment. "And your shield is drifting out of line. Higher. Not _tha_ t high," he corrected sharply, even as he dropped and struck out, sword in right hand lifting to deflect Cailan's descending sword while the dagger in his left hand flicked out across his body and under the lower edge of Cailan's shield before the prince could bring it back into position. Cailan yelped and backpedalled hurriedly, Loghain instantly switching to the attack, forcing him back several more times before Cailan finally recovered the initiative. The entire time, his voice continued, in the same dry, level tones, critiquing the Prince's performance, giving out advice, criticism, correction and praise as due, without sounding even the slightest out of breath. Cailan, in his heavy armour, was breathing as loudly as a bellows.

It made Oswyn wish he knew more of fighting, could really understand the fight he was watching. The more experienced fighters – Maric, Fergus, Anora – were watching avidly, muttering to themselves occasionally as Cailan or Loghain made some especially brilliant move, or Cailan made some especially stupid one.

"That's better," Loghain said approvingly. "You countered it properly that time. But can you do it a second time, my Prince? Good, very good. Perhaps you might actually last five minutes against the next fighter you face who has _pretty eyes_ ," he said, then made a flashing series of moved that ended, as it had with Anora, with Cailan flat on his back, disarmed, and with a sword at his throat, his face bright red with a combination of breathlessness and anger. "Or perhaps not," Loghain said, sighed, and sheathed his sword, before turning and strolling over to offer the dagger back to his daughter. She was grinning again as she accepted it and sheathed it.

King Maric smiled pleasantly at them. "Don't take too long to come back in," he said. "We'll be lunching shortly, after which it will be time to present young Vaughan with his gifts. Come, Loghain," he said, and turned, walking back toward the entrance.

"Of course, my king," Loghain said, turning and following him away, without a single backwards glance at where the Prince still lay on his back in the slush.

"Are they gone?" Cailan asked a moment later.

"Yes," Fergus replied.

Cailan started cursing, slowly sitting up as he did so, moving as if he was tired and sore – hardly surprising after three spars in a row, especially with how vicious that final one had been. Oswyn was shocked at how vile some of the words he used were, and glanced nervously at Anora. She had her usual calm expression on her face, but allowed a slight smile to cross it as she caught his look. "Don't worry," she reassured him quietly. "I taught him most of those. I've been exposed to far more barracks-room language – and stories – in my life then _he_ ever has been," she finished, a surprising twinkle in her eyes.

Oswyn watched in shock as she walked over and gave Cailan a hand to his feet. If she knew _those_ sorts of words and stories, then whatever was it in Cailan's rather mild story earlier that had made her blush...!

"Come on, we'd better head back indoors and get cleaned up and changed," Fergus said. "How's the lip, Oswyn?"

"Oh, errr, it's fine," he stuttered, realizing he'd completely forgotten it while watching the fight. He fell in behind the others, wondering if he'd ever be as fine a warrior as Teryn Loghain obviously was.

* * *

Delilah added another snowball to the pile. Thomas and Vaughan had decreed that since she was a girl, and no good at throwing snowballs, that her proper role was to make the snowballs for them to throw at the target. She didn't mind, she liked having things like that to do, where she could think about whatever she liked while her hands did something.

What she was mainly thinking of right now was the snow itself. How beautiful and white it was when it first fell out of the sky. How many different shapes and sizes of snowflakes there were. How cold it was. How many different types of it there was – soft new-fallen snow, light and fluffy snow, hard-packed snow, snow that lay on the ground in little round pellets, snow that made odd squeaking sounds underfoot when you walked on it. And this kind of snow, her favourite snow, was a little wet and stuck together very well, even if it did soak through her skirts and stockings very quickly and make her hands red with cold.

Thomas and Vaughan had picked a spot on a tree trunk as a target, and thrown snowballs at it for a while, before they started arguing about who had hit the target most closely and then given up on snowballs and gone somewhere else. They hadn't told her to stop making snowballs though, and she liked being out here in the silence and the cold, so she kept making them, making small stacks of them, and lines of them, and very small snowmen out of them. A whole city, made of snowballs, inhabited by snow people, going about their cold white snow lives.

"Delilah! You're soaked!" a familiar voice exclaimed.

She looked up and smiled at her nurse. "I'm cold," she said complacently, even as her busy hands made another snowball.

Nurse snorted. "No surprise that, with you kneeling out here in the snow this way! Come, let's get you indoors and warmed up and changed into something dry – it's almost lunch time, little miss."

"All right," she said, contentedly, rising to her feet and taking her nurse's hand. She liked nurse. She was going to miss her, when Nurse left – but she was thirteen now, and her mother had decreed that it was time she graduated from a nurse to a lady's maid.

She glanced back once as they left, looking at her snow city, and the snow people, and hoping they wouldn't be lonely now that she'd gone.

* * *

Thomas and Vaughan wandered down a hallway, occasionally stopping to peer into open rooms. It was the part of the manse where the guards lived, so most of it was martial in nature – barracks, an armoury, the soldier's mess. They left the closed doors strictly alone, knowing dangerous things might be behind them – mabari hounds, or sleeping guards.

They were eyeing the open door to the kitchen off of the mess hall when a tall skinny man in drab dark clothing swept into the room and spotted them. "Master Vaughan," he said, sounding disapproving. "You shouldn't be wandering around in the guard's quarters. Come, it's time for lunch, and then your party."

Vaughan nodded. "Yes, Faro," he said.

Faro bowed slightly to Thomas. "If you too could accompany me?" he suggested politely, then turned and walked away, the two boys falling in behind him.

"Who is he?" Thomas whispered, nodding at the man.

"My tutor," Vaughan said, scowling faintly at Faro's back.

Thomas was impressed. A tutor! He didn't have a tutor of his own, just lessons daily with Sister Agrippa, along with his brother and sister and the children of some of the more highly-placed servants and guards.

The tutor led them back to the great hall, now set up for a midday meal. The adults sat at one end of the lengthy table, the children in the middle, and the higher servants and guards who were being permitted to attend at the foot. Thomas found himself between his brother and sister, with Habren across from him, the nurses of both girls at their sides. He didn't feel like talking to the girls – especially Habren, who was still just a baby, really, but Nate and the boy across from him – Oswyn, Thomas remembered, Bann Sighard's son – were busy talking to each other and paying him no attention at all.

"You should try a longbow," his brother was saying earnestly to Oswyn. "With your height, and the strength you're likely to grow into, you'd be able to draw a very strong one."

Oswyn frowned. "I like being in a melee more then making ranged attacks," he said.

Nate shrugged. "Sure, but a sword is only good against an enemy close enough for you to use it on. If you find yourself on lower ground, with someone casting arrows down at you from atop a height, or across a river from you, what are you going to do – throw it at them? More, if you have a longbow, you could easily get several shots off at someone from when they first come into effective bow range to where you need to switch to your sword, and that can make the difference when you have several people charging you at once."

Oswyn nodded thoughtfully. "I'll look into it," he agreed.

Thomas tuned out their conversation. Weapons. That was all Nathaniel ever seemed to want to talk about – weapons, and armour, and horses. He concentrated on his food instead, enjoying the smells and textures and tastes, taking careful sips of the watered win in his cup, enjoying the way its tartness made his mouth feel.

After the meal was cleared away, and the seating rearranged, there came the presentation of gifts to Vaughan. Thomas watched enviously as his friend received his gifts, wishing it was his special day instead – even if a lot of them were things he didn't care for, they were so beautiful.

A gift from King Maric and Prince Cailan came first, a gorgeous bay horse from the King and finely tooled leather tack for it from Cailan. The horse, brushed until it shone, was led right into the room, hoofs clopping noisily on the stone floors, for the boy to admire before it was taken back outside and to the stables. Then a gift from the Couslands – a beautiful pair of daggers, with sheaths and a weapons belt in the Kendells' colours. Loghain and Anora presented him with a sword, and a tunic worked with his family's crest, gold embroidery winking around the neck opening and lower hem. Arl Eamon had a beautiful puppy for him, a silvery-grey sighthound that was thrown from his best bitch, he said, and Thomas' own father, Rendon, gifted Vaughan with some fine riding boots and a jacket of stiffened leather, dyed in his colours. Arl Bryland had a small but well-made bow and a quiver of arrows for him, and Bann Teagan, the least of the nobles in attendance, had a cloak for him, of heavy woolen cloth trimmed with wolf fur and lined with silk.

Then of course the boy had to be taken off by his tutor, and changed into all his new clothes, and they went out to the stable yard and watched him parade around in them before being helped to mount his new horse, sitting proudly but a little nervously on it – it was considerably taller then the pony that had been his previous mount – as it was led around the yard on a rein by the stable master himself.

After that the party broke up again, everyone wandering off to rest or socialize until the final entertainment that night.


	9. The Snow City

Alistair wasn't sure what to do with himself. Now that the pup officially belonged to Vaughan, the stable master had assigned one of his own dog boys to care for it. He was still to sleep in the pen with it tonight, but until then he'd given way to one of the boys who'd be caring for it in future. He'd gone from the kennel into the stables, far enough away that the puppy wouldn't see or smell him and be wanting him to come near again. Unfortunately that put him underfoot of the grooms and stable boys, trying to get through the evening mucking out and feeding early enough that they could go watch the entertainment, which was going to be held outside.

After the second time a groom cursed at him for being underfoot, Alistair decided he'd be better off going outside. It would be colder there, but at least he wouldn't be in the way.

The stable yard was all slushy from all the traffic through it earlier that afternoon, when the nobles had gathered to watch Vaughan ride around on his new horse. Alistair didn't think his boots would stay warm for long if he stood around in the sopping wet mix of snow, water and dirt currently overlaying the cobbled yard, so he ducked out the arched entranceway and into the estate grounds. The narrow roadway curving off toward the estate's main gate was also mucky from traffic, but a stretch of smooth snow broken only by a narrow footpath trodden in the snow led off to his right. He wandered that way, following the path, curious to see where it led.

Several minutes of trudging around the grounds brought him out in an area that, judging by the snow-covered fences and leafy lumps and bumps, was a kitchen garden in warmer seasons. It backed onto a small wooded area. He was about to turn away when a dark shape moved over near the forest, and he realized there was a young girl there, kneeling down and doing something in the snow. Curious as to what she was up to, he walked closer.

* * *

Delilah looked up at the sound of footsteps crunching through the sodden snow, expecting it to be her nurse again, or one of the other children, but it was no one she'd ever seen before. A boy, a few years younger then herself, with dark blond hair sticking up in all directions. He was roughly dressed and smelled of dog and horse. A stable boy, perhaps.

"Good afternoon," she said composedly, as she carefully made another small snowball and set it on top of a slightly larger one.

"Hello," he said, eyes running over the lines and piles of snowballs, the little snowmen. "What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Making a city. These are my snow people."

"Oh," he said, and frowned, looking at it again, turning his head to one side as if that would help it to make more sense to him.

"You can help me," she told him, feeling generous. "Make more snowballs for me to use."

He looked surprised, then smiled shyly. "All right," he agreed, and knelt down in the snow nearby, packing together snowballs and passing them over to her. She finished the line of little snowmen she'd been working on, and then started work on a more ambitious structure then any she'd made yet.

"What's that going to be?" the boy asked, as she carefully worked on making the stacked-snowball walls for it extra-tall.

"Their chantry," she told him calmly.

He nodded, and they continued working in companionable silence.

* * *

Vaughan scowled as he went out the servant's entrance and out into the snowy grounds of the estate. He'd wanted to keep his beautiful new clothes on, but Faro had made him take them all off and put things away, saying it was too good to wear to go play outside in the snow in. He wondered where Thomas was – he'd hoped to find him and go exploring again, but he'd seen no sign of the other boy.

Scuffing his feet through the snow he started to circle the estate, wondering where everyone else was. All of them seemed to have disappeared, except for a group of the adults busy talking and drinking in the hall, which seemed to be about all they did. Boring!

He rounded the corner of the manse and stopped, seeing two smaller forms crouched in the snow near the little wooded copse beyond the gardens. He felt his spirits lift. So that's where the two of them had disappeared off to He hurried forward, not quite running, and called out as he drew nearer to them. "Delilah! Thomas!"

Two faces turned to look at him. He came to an abrupt stop, realizing the young boy wasn't who he'd thought it was.

"Good afternoon, Vaughan," Delilah said, and smiled. "Did you like your presents?"

"Yes," he said shortly, and frowned at the blond boy, taking in his rough clothes, wrinkling his nose at the faint reek of stable and kennel that clung to him. "Who is _he?_ " he asked suspiciously.

Delilah shrugged, went back to what she was doing. "I don't know. Who are you, boy?" she asked imperiously.

"Arl Eamon's dog boy," he said, looking nervously back and forth between the two.

Vaughan's eyes narrowed. "Why aren't you in then the kennel then?" he demanded. "Looking after his dogs?"

"He only brought one, and it's your dog now, so I'm not in charge of it any more," the boy explained.

"Oh," Vaughan said, feeling chagrined. He should have realized there wasn't any reason for Arl Eamon to have brought any other dogs, just his puppy. "What are you doing out here?"

"He's making snowballs for me," Delilah said, and looked at the boy. "I'm almost out again," she said pointedly, and he hurried to resume making more.

Vaughan frowned, and looked at the lines and piles of snowballs, the clusters of little snowmen. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"Making a snow city," she said. "These are my snow people, and I am their Arlessa."

Vaughan snorted. " _You're_ not going to be an Arlessa, your brother Nathaniel will be Arl after your father, just like I'll be Arl after mine," he said triumphantly.

"I will be at least an Arlessa, possibly even a Teryna," she responded placidly. "It all depends on who I marry, after all. I could even be a Queen, except my father says Cailan is already promised to Anora. Girls can be _anything_ , if they marry well," she said, and then frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose if I liked him enough, I'd be willing to marry a Bann, but I would have to love him _very_ much, I think, before I would ask my father to agree to that."

Vaughan felt a surge of annoyance. She was right; she might well be an Arlessa some day, even as a younger child. A boy who wasn't his father's heir would have to do something special for that to happen, special enough for his Teryn or the King to reward him with an arling somewhere.

Realizing the dog boy had been witness to his stupidity made him feel even more annoyed. He glared at the younger boy, who didn't even notice, as busy as he was with making snow balls for Delilah. That annoyed him even further – what right did a mere servant have to ignore him? _He_ would be Arl of Denerim some day, while the dog boy would remain a nothing.

He snorted and took a few steps to the side, closer to the edge of the area Delilah had filled with her so-called city. He looked sideways at the two younger children. Neither was paying any attention to him. He scowled, and kicked angrily at the snow. A clod of it flew forward, landing against one of the snowball walls and knocking it slightly out of alignment. He felt a tiny thrill of satisfaction at that, and glanced quickly to see if they'd noticed what he'd just done. They hadn't.

He kicked again, this time purposefully knocking a bigger clot of it at the same wall. It impacted solidly enough to knock part of the wall down. A bigger thrill that time – the first had been an accident, but now he was being bad on purpose. But they _still_ hadn't noticed – Delilah was busy making a bigger-then-average snowperson in the big structure she was working on, the dog boy peering curiously in over the wall at what she was doing as he packed together another snowball for her.

He stepped closer, nudged a snow person over with his foot, then a second, glancing at the two repeatedly, feeling angrier and angrier as they continued to ignore him. He scowled, and kicked viciously at a tall pile of snowballs. They were stacked together loosely enough to mainly break apart into individual balls again, raining down upon and damaging a gratifyingly large patch of Delilah's city. He glanced over, and found the dog boy staring at him, mouth an astonished 'O' of shocked surprise. He grinned triumphantly at the younger boy, and purposefully kicked apart a second pile.

Delilah, looking up for another snowball and finding her assistant didn't have one, turned to see what he was looking so shocked about. She shrieked in angry surprise as she saw the wreck Vaughan was making of her city, then launched herself at him, tackling him and knocking him right off his feet.

Vaughan yelped in surprise – he'd never have expected a _girl_ to attack him like that. He yelped again as one of her flailing fists connected with his cheek. As they struggled her knee dug into his groin, hard enough to hurt. He bellowed in pain and fright and fury, and shoved frantically at her, harder then he'd meant to, rolling her off of him. He rose, drawing back his foot to kick at her, only to be knocked over a second time as a smaller form barrelled into him. The dog boy, he realized, angry that a servant would dare lay hand to him. Delilah wailed unhappily as the two of them struggled and fought, rolling around in the snow and flattening even more of her snow city.

* * *

Oswyn looked into the room he and the others had been in before their session in the practise yard earlier. He saw Thomas playing quietly with Habren, while Habren's nurse and a woman Oswyn thought might be Delilah's nurse sat and talked near the fire. Apart from them, the room was empty. He frowned, wondering where everyone was. He turned and started to walk away.

"Oswyn!" a familiar voice called out from behind him.

He turned, and smiled to see Cailan and Nathaniel at the far end of the hallway.

"Nathaniel was about to take me out to the stables to show me his horse," Prince Cailan called cheerfully. "Want to come along?"

"Certainly," Oswyn agreed, and hurried over to join them, feeling pleased and flattered that the prince wanted his company, though he did wonder where Cailan and Nate's usual companions were.

"Anora and Fergus are off listening to all the boring old sticks talk," Cailan remarked, as if in answer to his thought. "Nate and I escaped as soon as we decently could. I'd rather go three rounds with Loghain then spend one hour listening to my father and his friends talking politics," he added, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he led the way to the stables.

They spent a while admiring Nate's horse, a rather fine sorrel gelding, and took a walk around to admire some of the other mounts currently there.

"How about some fresh air?" Nathaniel suggested after a while, nodding toward the doors leading out to the stable yard. "We can take a walk through the grounds before dinner."

Cailan nodded agreement, and the three young men headed outdoors. They set off along a path through the snow, crossing one open space, then turning a corner, and were about halfway across a second section of open ground when they heard a distant shriek.

"That's Delilah!" Nate exclaimed, and started running, the other two quickly following him at speed.

They came to a section where the grounds widened out, snow-covered gardens backing on a forested area. As they raced through the gardens, they could see Delilah sitting in the snow, howling with upset tears as two boys fought nearby. The larger of the two was straddling the smaller, hitting out at him while the smaller was trying to keep his head and face shielded from the rain of blows.

Nate dropped to his knees in the snow beside Delilah, and she flung herself into his arms, crying hysterically. Cailan reached the two boys first, and plucked up the one on top, pinning the arms of the struggling child – Vaughan, Oswyn noticed in passing as he crouched down to check the smaller boy. He had to lift the boy into his lap before he could coax him into lowering his arms so he could see his face. The boy – a stable boy or dog boy judging by clothing and smell – had a dazed expression, a bleeding nose, and a bruise coming up on one cheek, but otherwise seemed fine.

"What happened here?" Cailan demanded loudly. Vaughan stopped his thrashing and went still, looking pale and angry.

The three older boys quickly realized that none of the three children was currently in any state to answer; Delilah was still more then half-hysterical, Vaughan was tongue-tied with anger, and the servant boy was too scared and possibly more then a little stunned.

"Bring them over to the fountain courtyard," Cailan said, and led the way to the nearby flower garden, tucked into a corner of the building. The fountain was dry for the winter, but there were benches they could sit down on. "Do something about that nose bleed," Cailan directed Oswyn as they carried the three children over.

Oswyn nodded. He scooped up a handful of snow after sitting down with the child in his lap, holding it gently but firmly against the boy's nose to absorb and stop the bleeding. Nate sat down beside him, cradling a now much-quieter Delilah in his arms. Cailan lowered the now still and silent Vaughan to his feet and frowned down at him.

"What happened?" he asked again, quietly.

Vaughan scowled, and pointed at the younger boy. "He _attacked_ me! I was only defending myself," he exclaimed angrily.

The look on Cailan's face said pretty eloquently what he thought of defence that involved beating a smaller, already fallen foe, but he still turned and looked questioningly at the boy in Oswyn's lap. " _Did_ you attack Vaughan?" he asked neutrally.

The boy squirmed, pushing away Oswyn's hand. He let the handful of reddened snow drop to the ground.

"I... yes, ser, I attacked him first," the boy said quietly.

"He was defending me!" Delilah exclaimed. "Vaughan and I were fighting, and Vaughan pushed me and was hitting me, and _then_ he attacked Vaughan."

"And why were you and Vaughan fighting?" Nathaniel asked his sister, voice severe.

"He broke my city! I spent ages and ages making it and he was kicking it apart!" she wailed, and started crying again, burying her face against his shoulder.

"Is this true?" Cailan asked Vaughan, frowning at the younger boy.

Vaughan was looking scared now. He was silent for a long moment, biting his lip, face going pale as his eyes flicked back and forth between the three, then slowly nodded. "Yes, ser," he agreed in a very small voice.

Cailan nodded. "It would have been better if you'd admitted that properly the first time, Vaughan, rather then trying to shift the blame for the fight to the other boy," he chastised him gently, then looked at the others. "I'll take him in and turn him over to his tutor, you two see to the others."

Vaughan went even paler, and followed Cailan away.

Nate frowned after the departing pair. "Hard to believe he's only a year younger then you," he remarked to Oswyn. "Even well before you got your growth you were more mature then that."

Oswyn didn't say anything, not sure how to respond to either the implied compliment to him, or the condemnation of Vaughan's current immaturity.

Nathaniel rose to his feet, Delilah still clinging to him like a limpet. "Come on, pet, let's go find your nurse," he said gently to her. She nodded, face still hidden, arms clasped tightly around his neck as he carried her away.

Oswyn looked at the boy still sitting in his own lap, face still bloody from his nosebleed. "And where do _you_ belong?" he asked him. "Stables?"

"Kennels," the boy corrected him softly. "I'm Arl Eamon's dog boy. I can find my way back myself," he added worriedly.

Oswyn nodded, rising to his feet and setting the boy on the ground. "I'd better come along anyway," he said. "To make sure the stable master knows that you're not due a whipping for having ended up in a fight. It was the proper thing to do, defending a girl from a larger boy," he added approvingly.

The dog boy's face lit up at the praise. "Thank you, ser," he said shyly, and turned to lead the way back to the stables.


	10. Cold Heart

Alistair clung tightly to his pony's saddle, hands numb with cold. This day's travel back toward Redcliffe had started out well enough, with the low grey clouds overhead breaking up and giving way to bright sunshine. Unfortunately, in winter sunny days were usually colder then overcast ones, and today was proving to be rather bitterly cold. It was even worse once they started skirting the lake, the strong winds along the shore rapidly stripped away what little warmth had still been trapped inside his layers of clothing. He'd spent most of the morning shivering, and envying the men-at-arms their heavy fur-trimmed wool cloaks. Arl Eamon was wearing a particularly magnificent cloak, a First Day gift from his brother Bann Teagan, of black bear fur trimmed with grey wolf.

At least the shivering had finally stopped, though every muscle of his body felt stiff and sore from it still. And he was tired, so tired... he just wanted to lie down and go to sleep, somewhere _warm_ , though as tired as he was even laying down right in the snow would do. And they still had a half day of travel to go...

"Boy? Can you get down?" a concerned voice asked.

He raised his head, dumbly realizing he'd actually drifted off for a while while still riding. He stared at the man standing beside the pony, not recognizing him; judging by his youthful face, he must be one of the recently knighted men the Arl had hired on while in Denerim. The knight frowned, then stripped off a gauntlet and reached out to feel his cheek, before frowning even more, hand dropping the skin of his throat.

"Maker, you're cold as ice!" he exclaimed, then half-turned away. "Varen, give me a hand here, the boy's half-frozen."

A second knight came forward, and the two of them pried his hands off the pommel of his saddle, then lifted him down. The first knight swept his own cloak off of his shoulders and knelt down, wrapping it snugly around Alistair and then lifting him up, carrying him over to where several of the men had started a fire and were filling a large pot suspended over it with snow to melt and heat for tea. One of the more senior knights, the acting captain for this journey, walked over. "Something wrong, Ser Donall?" he asked.

"Yes, ser – I think the boy is cold-mazed. He's cold to the touch, blue-lipped, and isn't even shivering."

The older knight's frown deepened, and he crouched down, peeling back the cloak and his gauntlets, reaching in to feel the skin at Alistair's throat and side. He nodded and rewrapped the cloak. "Well spotted, Donall," he said, voice warm with approval. "Do what you can to get him warmed up again."

"Yes, ser," the knight – Ser Donall – answered.

Alistair knew they were talking about him, and had a feeling that he should be feeling something – scared, maybe – but he was just so _tired_... The knight pulled his hands out from under the cloak, stripping off the woollen mittens he was wearing and began gently chaffing his hands. Alistair couldn't feel it at first, and then suddenly he _could_ feel it, a rush of pins-and-needles that made him want to snatch his hands away, but he was too stiff to move.

One of the other knights brought over a mug of sweetened tea after a while, and Donall held it to his lips, coaxing him to open his mouth and swallow. It hurt to unclench his jaw enough to do so, and then the tea seemed far too hot to drink, but after the first few sips it was merely pleasantly warm. A tight knot in his middle seemed to relax, and suddenly he was shivering again, shivering and crying and _scared_.

"What's wrong with the boy?" a voice asked, and Alistair felt a flush of embarrassment at realizing it was the Arl.

"Cold-mazed, my lord," Donall answered. "He should be all right once he's properly warmed up."

Arl Eamon grunted in acknowledgement, and moved off again.

By the time the rest break was over, Alistair was feeling more himself again. Still very tired and sore, but at least he was warm again, the shivering and crying both stopped. Ser Donall, on the other hand, was starting to shiver from the lack of his cloak.

"What should we do about the boy?" he asked the captain and everyone began mounting again for the afternoon's travel. "He's not dressed warmly enough for this weather – he'll get cold-mazed again on that pony. Or worse."

The knight nodded. "Take him up in front of you for now, the two of you are both small enough that together you won't overburden the horse; that should keep him warm enough."

Which is how Alistair found himself riding the next leg of the journey perched on the pommel of Ser Donall's saddle, the knight's cloak enclosing them both, making a warm tent that trapped the heat of their bodies and that of the horse. It wasn't long before he dropped off into exhausted sleep

* * *

Arl Eamon frowned at the darkening sky as the men bustled around setting up camp for the night. He wished they'd made better time; he'd hoped to be home by now. But instead they were still a half-day out from Redcliffe, their travel having been slowed by the deep snow and the bitterly cold weather that had forced them to take additional rest breaks to allow the men and horses time to rest, eat, and warm up.

He lowered his eyes back to the road just in time to see a fast-ridden horse come barrelling around a distant hillock, following the snow-covered road toward them. As the horse drew closer he saw that it carried someone in his own colours – one of the men-at-arms from the castle, by the way he was dressed.

"Ho! Arl Eamon!" the man called as he drew closer, raising and arm and waving. "Message for you, ser!"

The messenger pulled up his horse, pulling a sealed scroll out of his message pouch and handing it down. Eamon stripped off the covering and unrolled the scroll, quickly scanning the words. He felt faint at the news it bore; Isolde had gone into premature labour. Again.

"Captain!" he barked.

"Yes, my lord?"

"We're continuing on to Redcliffe tonight," he said, holding out the scroll as explanation.

The Captain skimmed the news, and nodded, face grim, then handed it back and began barking orders, seeing the tents struck and repacked, his men fed before they put out the fires and moved out. As they moved out, all Eamon could think was "Let her live... let Isolde live...".

* * *

He was off his horse before it had even come to a complete stop, dropping the reins to the ground and running up the stairs to the front doors of the castle. He hurried through the corridors and up the stairs to his and Isolde's quarters, fearing what he'd find.

The sitting room was warmly lit by a low fire and several candles, a pair of his wife's ladies-in-waiting sitting talking quietly over their needlework. That they were here and looked reasonably calm reassured him. "Isolde?" he asked, coming to a stop as the two rose to their feet.

One took a step toward him, while the other hurried over and disappeared through the door to Isolde's rooms. "She lives, my lord," the woman said calmly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, overcome with relief, feeling his eyes filling with tears as he drew a deep, shuddering breath. He heard footsteps approaching, and opened his eyes to find the other woman had returned, having fetched the midwife.

"She will recover," the dumpy woman said, nervously bobbing her head in a slight bow. "In time. She is sleeping now."

"The child?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be even before the woman shook her head, looking saddened – it was too soon, far too soon.

"It would have been a daughter," she told him softly. "Do you wish to see it, or...?"

He shook his head. He'd made the mistake of looking at the son she'd lost, years before. Never again, he'd promised himself afterwards, haunted for months afterwards by memories of the lifeless babe. "Just... see that it... that _she_... is properly prepared for burial," he said. "May I see Isolde?"

"Of course, my lord," the midwife said, and glanced worriedly at his mail-shod feet.

"I'll change first," he said, humbly, and went to his rooms, shutting the door behind him. He stood there for a while, leaning against it, allowing the tears to run down his face, mourning the child, the might-have-beens. Finally recovered his composure, and began slowly stripping off his cloak and mail, changing into indoor clothing to go and sit by Isolde's side, and wait for her to wake.

* * *

**Cold-mazed – needed a term for hypothermia, and this was the best I could come up with. One of the symptoms of moderate hypothermia is confused thinking, and as it progresses into severe hypothermia the victim begins to have difficulty in speaking, finds it increasingly difficult to move, and eventually can fall into a stupor – they're awake, but non-responsive. Alistair was close to this.**


	11. A Proper Education

The brat had fallen sick after their return to Redcliffe, sick enough that he'd had to be brought in to the castle's infirmary, and cared for by the healer. He'd tried to keep word of that from Isolde, knowing it would upset her, but in the end the servant's gossiping brought the news to her ears anyway.

"Why is _that boy_ in the castle?"she demanded one day when he went to visit her, voice cold, eyes anguished, her arms folded over her chest. She was still not entirely recovered from loosing their child, and had been ordered to keep herself to bed with only brief, light exercise once or twice a day allowed. She was not taking the additional confinement well; she'd always preferred being an active woman.

He sighed and sank down onto a nearby chair. "He's sick. He took cold on the journey back from Denerim."

" _Sick?_ He could have recovered from a cold in the stables well enough!"

"No, Isolde, he couldn't have," Eamon explained patiently. "It was much worse then just a cold. The healer feared for his life for a while, though he's recovering now."

"Better he had died," Isolde said bitterly.

"Isolde!" Eamon gasped, shocked by her callous comment.

"I know I shouldn't say it, but I am _so tired_ of hearing word of that boy, so tired of the rumours, the innuendo, the ones who say that I can give you no child and you should recognize _him_." she wailed, and began sobbing, hands pressed to her face. "Send him away, Eamon, please, please, I am begging you. Send him away!"

He stumbled across to the bed, took her in his arms, trying to comfort her. "I promised his father..."

"Oh, _Eamon!_ " she exclaimed, raising her head, eyes flashing with anger. "You promised to see him raised properly, you told me. Did you promise to raise him yourself? Can not you put him somewhere else, foster him out to one of your banns? Please, Eamon. Having him near, having to live with the rumours, it's killing me."

"I... will see what I can do," he stammered, then hugged her tightly. "I am sorry, my beloved, you've born so much all this time..."

She cried a while longer, head tucked down against his shoulder, before finally falling into exhausted sleep. He tucked her in, and rose to his feet, staring down at her pale form.

A letter. He'd have to write a letter to Maric. Surely, after his words with the king in Denerim, Maric would understand why he couldn't keep the boy nearby any longer.

* * *

Eamon scowled and crumpled up his latest attempt at a letter to Maric. Somehow he just couldn't find the right words to use for this request. How can you tell your king that his son is no longer welcome in your household? Without insulting him, without incurring his wrath when he's only recently got past his recent displeasure with you about the raising of that same son?

" _My king, I beg that I may be allowed..._ "

" _Maric, I regret that I must ask..._ "

" _Your highness, regarding the matter of the boy..._ "

Eamon growled and scooped up the crumpled attempts, consigned them one by one to the low fire crackling pleasantly on the hearth in his room. He stood a long moment, leaning against the stone mantel, watching the pieces of parchment burn. Only once they were utterly destroyed did he turn away, stalking out of his office and down the many stairs and the long hallways, to the lower regions of the castle, where the infirmary was.

As he approached the door of the small room where the boy was staying, it opened, and a young man stepped out, dressed in armour – one of the young knights he'd brought back from Denerim, he thought. What was his name... something with a D...

"Arl Eamon," the man said, crossing his arms and giving a slight bow.

"Ser Donall. Checking on the boy, were you?"

"Yes, ser," the knight answered. "I felt bad that I didn't notice earlier that he was in trouble, when we were travelling... I've visited him every day while he was recovering, at least since he was well enough again that the healer began allowing him visitors."

"That's very kind of you," Eamon said, trying to sound as if he approved. "I'm afraid we all failed the boy; I should have seen to it that he was better clothed for the trip, but I'm afraid I was thinking of other things, and didn't expect the weather to turn quite so foul. How is he today?"

Donall smiled. "Much improved. Starting to hit the point where he's finding staying in bed all the time a torment, but isn't well enough yet for the healer to allow him to be up and about. I recall maddening my mother when I'd be at that stage of recovery after childhood illnesses."

Eamon gave a short bark of laughter. "I'm sure we all have done so. Well, I should go in and see him myself, and I'm sure you have things you need to be doing as well."

"Yes, my lord," Donall said, then hesitated. "My lord..."

"Yes?"

"Is it true the boy's health may have been broken by his sickness? The healer seems quite concerned that he may have taken lasting ill effect from having been so sick..."

Eamon frowned. "I don't know – she hasn't mentioned such concerns to me. Perhaps I should go speak to her first, before I see the boy. Thank you for bringing the issue to my attention, Ser Donall," he said.

"Yes, my lord," the knight said, bowed, and went off about his business.

Eamon continued down the hallway to the infirmary proper, where he located the healer, Sister Clothilde, and asked her about the boy's health.

She frowned, looking concerned. "I fear his lungs have been affected by his illness," she explained. "He is no longer ill, but he remains short of breath. I believe you will need to find some other occupation for him; he is unable to do the sort of heavy manual labour that working in a stable requires. I believe you'd begun having him taught his letters?"

"Yes, he's been attending classes down at the chantry," Eamon agreed.

"Then perhaps you might consider having him trained as a clerk, or in some scholarly pursuit. Or even a craft, as long as it's one that doesn't require good physical conditioning – tailoring or somesuch."

Eamon frowned. "I... suppose that is possible," he agreed. A craft might be good – except he'd need to locate a master willing to take on the boy, and undoubtedly pay a sizable fee to have the brat apprenticed. And he had a suspicion Maric would object to the boy becoming a common craftsman, given how incensed he'd been to find that his son was a stable boy. "I am unsure... what sort of training would he require to become a clerk?"

"Oh, well, much what you've already started him on – learning his letters, some grounding in mathematics, history, geography, cartography, heraldry, etiquette, and so forth. He could acquire some of that here at the Redcliffe chantry, but..." she paused, biting her lip.

"But?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

"The best education would be at one of the larger chantries – Highever, or Denerim. Even Amaranthine – it's so much more cosmopolitan then here, you understand. Not that the chantry here is _lacking_ , it's just... well, so _rustic_. Redcliffe is a village, after all, not a sizable town or city. I hope my words do not offend..."

"No, no, not in the least," he assured her. "I happen to agree with your evaluation. If I wish to have the boy taken in by one of the larger chantries for training, what is involved?"

"Well... you'd be best off making enquiries with the Revered Mother, she can tell you more exactly, but it would involve applying to one of the chantries for a place for him in their school, then either swearing him over to the chantry, or paying a fee to cover his boarding and education. You understand, if he was sworn over, the chantry would expect to recoup the cost of his care and education from hiring out his work, later, but if you wish to retain his services and fealty yourself, you will need to cover that expense."

"Of course. A very sensible arrangement. Thank you for your advice, Sister – I will have to think on it, and decide what course is best for the boy's future, if, as you say, he is no longer capable of real labour. Thank you."

"Yes, my lord," she said.

Eamon went back down the hallway, and into the boy's room. He was napping, curled on one side. He didn't look particularly sickly – a little paler then usual, perhaps. And had just the slightest blue tinge to his lips, and a faint rale as his chest rose and fell, Eamon noted as he drew closer.

He was standing there, still watching, when the boy stirred and woke, blinking groggily up at the dark form looming nearby before abruptly realizing who it was.

"My lord," the boy exclaimed, sitting up and giving a slight bow. A silver amulet slipped out of the neck of his nightshirt as he did so, swinging crazily back and forth and reflecting the light from a nearby window. Eamon frowned slightly, recognizing it – the amulet that Maric had sent, that he said had belonged to the boy's mother, whomever the round-heeled bitch had been.

He felt a small, irrational surge of anger. It was not fair, that Maric had two healthy sons, while he had none, that all his died before they could be born, before they could even draw a single breath. He forced the anger aside, made himself sit down on the chair near the bed, keep his voice even and light as he spoke.

"I'm pleased to see you looking so much better, Alistair. You had us worried for a while there, you know."

The boy flushed pink and looked away, clearly both pleased and embarrassed that the Arl had cared enough to be worried about his health. "I'm sorry, ser. I should have known that something was wrong and spoken up, before I got so ill."

"It's all right, boy. We all make mistakes," Eamon said. "Tell me, how are you feeling now?"

The boy squirmed. "Better, ser, much better! But Sister Clothide says I have to remain in bed another few days, and might not be able to return to the stables even after that," he added miserably. "She says my breath is broken, like a horse that's been overworked. Is that true, ser?"

"It may be, but don't let it worry you; we'll find some other work you can do, if it proves to be true."

"Oh, thank you, ser!" the boy exclaimed, his whole face lighting up in a way that Eamon thought he might have found quite endearing, if not for his dislike of the brat. The boy had certainly inherited a measure of his father's charm to go along with the Theirin looks.

"I should go," he said, rising to his feet, not wanting to be around the boy a moment longer. "You pay attention to Sister Clothilde and _rest_."

"Yes, ser," the boy said, obediently lying down again as Eamon left the room.

He walked very slowly on the way back to his office, lost in thought. Mathematics, history, geography, heraldry – just the same sort of education a noble son would have, though he guessed that for the education of a clerk the emphasis would be mainly on the more practical of the skills.

He felt revitalized as he sat down in his office at his desk, and drew a fresh sheet of parchment closer. He pursed his lips in thought as he carefully dipped his pen. Denerim would be best; it put the boy closer to the King then he really liked, but the King was unlikely to become aware of the addition of a single small child to the local chantry school – all he really needed to be told was that Eamon had enrolled the boy for proper education at a chantry, not at _which_ chantry. And Eamon travelled to Denerim often enough that he could easily continue to monitor the boy's health and progress, not something he could say of Highever or Amaranthine. Besides, he and the Revered Mother in Denerim were on tolerably good terms, and he had little doubt she'd be willing to quietly enroll the boy at his request.

Yes, it was the perfect solution. Alistair to the chantry, Isolde made happier and more at ease, and the dratted boy no longer right under his nose day in and day out, and all while keeping his promise to Maric to see the boy properly raised and given an occupation. Maric could hardly object to the boy being given a proper education. He found himself smiling as he rapidly penned the letter, the words flowing with ease.


	12. Departure

Alistair waited on the bench in the hallway outside Arl Eamon's study. Sister Clothilde had told him the Arl wanted to see him, but he'd arrived to find the door closed and locked; a passing servant had said she thought the Arl was currently visiting his lady wife, and that Alistair would have to wait for him.

And so he had, sitting here while his bum grew numb from the unforgiving seat, growing increasingly bored but not quite daring to give up and go back to the infirmary. He tried to keep himself amused, doing things like counting the stones around the door frame, or how many slate tiles made up the floor of the hallway, but the number always got bigger then he could really keep track of. He stared at a tapestry hanging nearby for a while, wondering what the picture on it was about. There were a lot of people and dogs in a sunlit field by a dark forest, and a woman coming out of the forest, her head turned away to look toward a distant castle on an island in a lake. He wondered if the castle was meant to be Redcliffe, but it looked far too small to him, just a tower and a cluster of small buildings inside a walled yard, the whole thing embroidered at an odd angle so that you could see right down over the wall into the courtyard. He knew that couldn't be right; things didn't look like that, not unless the castle was down low, in which case it shouldn't have been on such a tall-looking hill. He puzzled over it for a while, until the sound of regular footsteps drew his attention back to the present.

He smiled when he saw who it was walking along the hallway, and rose to his feet, giving the knight a courteous bow. "Good afternoon, Ser Donall," he said.

"Alistair," the knight said, coming to a stop and smiling warmly at him. "What are you doing here? Waiting to see Arl Eamon?"

"Yes, ser, the Arl told Sister Clothilde that I was to come see him. But he's not here right now, so I've been waiting for him."

Ser Donall nodded. "He should be here soon – I saw him talking with a petitioner from the village down in the great hall when I passed through there a few minutes ago. Likely he'll be up here as soon as he's finished dealing with them."

Alistair nodded. "Thank you, ser."

Donall smiled. "And how are you feeling today? Much better I hope?"

Alistair chewed unhappily on his bottom lip. He was feeling better, much better, but he knew he wasn't well. Just walking here from the infirmary had made him short of breath and lightheaded, and almost brought on another of the racking coughing fits he'd been prone to ever since he'd re-awoken after being so terribly sick. He'd had to sit very still and breath as steadily as he could until the urge to cough finally passed.

It scared him. What use would he be to the Arl, when just walking made him lightheaded? He certainly couldn't muck out a stall in this condition. Just the thought of how the hay dust would aggravate his cough made the tickly feeling return. "I'm much better," he said quietly, voice thin and thready from suppressing the urge to cough.

"Ah, Alistair, there you are," Arl Eamon said as he came stalking down the highway toward the pair of them. "Ser Donall."

"My lord," the knight said, bowing to the Arl. He smiled and winked at Alistair, then continued on his way.

"Come, Alistair, I need to talk with you," the Arl said, opening the door to his study and waving for Alistair to follow him in.

Alistair went in, taking the hard-backed wooden chair across the desk from the Arl. The Arl sighed as he sank into the well-padded chair behind the desk.

"Well, Alistair, I have both good news and bad news for you," the Arl explained. "The bad news is that Sister Clothilde believes your health is unlikely to improve much beyond where it currently is, at least for the foreseeable future; it will be at least months, possibly years before your lungs recover, if they ever do. Unfortunately, that means that you aren't going to be able to continue working here at the castle."

Alistair swallowed, going pale. "Not... not work at the castle any longer?" he asked, feeling frightened. If he couldn't work... then what was going to happen to him? Would they just turn him out, to make his own way in the world?

"No, my boy, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave here. Leave Redcliffe entirely. Sister Clothilde had a good thought, she suggested to me that since you were already learning your letters, that I send you to be trained as a clerk. The work is not strenuous, and in time you'll be able to make a living for yourself at it. I've made the arrangements, and you're to be sent to the chantry in Denerim to become a student there. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ser," Alistair said faintly. Sent away? It wasn't as bad as being turned out, but... he bit his lip, fighting back tears. This was his home; everyone and everything he knew was here. His mother's ashes were scattered somewhere in the hills near here – he'd never quite dared to try and find out where – and all his friends, and... and _everything_ he knew, was here.

"Good. I have a courier leaving for Denerim tomorrow morning, carrying some parcels and messages – you'll be travelling with him. He's been informed of your ill health and knows that he's to take his time and see to it that you don't take a chill a second time. Return to the infirmary for now; one of the stable boys will fetch your things there, and my manservant has been told to see that you're properly outfitted with suitable warm clothing for the journey and for the start of your schooling. And whenever I'm in Denerim I'll try to find the time to drop in and see how your education is progressing. All right?"

"Yes, ser," Alistair said quietly.

"Good. You may go," Eamon said.

Alistair rose, bowed, and went out to the hallway. He hurried down the corridor, down a flight of stairs and around a couple of corners, then ducked into a window embrasure. His face felt hot and tight, his head throbbing painfully, tears prickling at his eyes, and the hurried pace he'd taken meant the tickly feeling was worse then ever. He leaned against the cool stone, fighting back sobs. He didn't want to go. This was _home_.

He felt something tap lightly against his chest as he leaned forward against the wall, and looked down. The amulet had slipped free of his shirt and was swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He straightened, cupping his hand under the amulet, gazing silently down at the symbol of Andraste etched into the surface. Andraste. The chantry. He was being sent away to the chantry, because he was _useless_. No one wanted him. No one cared for him, or cared about what he wanted. In a surge of anger, he closed his fist around the amulet, and yanked, feeling the sting of the thin chain cutting into his neck before it snapped. He turned and flung it away from himself, as hard as he could, then gasped as it bounced crookedly off the wall and shattered on the floor. No! He hadn't meant to do that!

He scurried over, dropping to his knees, eyes filling with tears as he looked at the shards. He picked up one of the bigger fragments, lower lip trembling. He was surprised to see it wasn't really metal, but a ceramic core with a silver glaze; real silver, he was sure, would have survived his momentary anger. He began crying in earnest, hiccuping sobs that started him coughing. He was lightheaded and had a nasty taste in his mouth from the phlegm the coughing had brought up, before he finally got himself back under control.

He heard the scuff of footsteps approaching, and hurried off, not wanting anyone to catch him all tear-streaked and snotty, leaving the shattered pieces of the amulet behind.

* * *

Alistair was surprised at the quality and amount of clothing the Arl's manservant brought for him to wear. Heavy woolen leggings and tunic, a quilted jacket, leather boots suitable for riding, soft leather buskins for indoor wear, a lined, fur-trimmed cloak with a hood, warm gloves, several changes of simple indoor clothing, of the good-quality cotton cloth the better servants wore, including new smallclothes and socks of both wool and cotton, and a linen tabard in Arl Eamon's colours.

"You're going to be schooled at Denerim chantry, the largest in the land," the manservant said as he packed it away after having Alistair try things on to make sure everything fit properly. "Your classmates will know that you have been sponsored to the school by Arl Eamon. Your dress and manners will reflect on him, boy. Be sure not to be a disappointment!"

"Yes, ser," Alistair said solemnly.

He dressed in his warm new clothing for the journey, and followed the manservant out to the courtyard. The courier was already there, giving the tack of his horse a final check. A familiar shaggy-coated pony waited nearby, and an equally rough-coated pack horse onto which the courier's parcels and his bundle of clothing were being loaded. Sister Clothilde came bustling out as he was checking the girth of his own saddle, and gave him a small cloth bag. "Medicinal tea, to soothe your lungs if you begin coughing too much. One spoonful in a cup of boiling water, steeped for as long as it takes to chant the Canticle of Andraste. No more then three cups in a day, do you understand?"

"Yes, sister," he said, tucking the bag away in one of his saddlebags. She nodded and went over to speak to the courier, undoubtedly giving him the same instructions, before disappearing back indoors. The manservant, having loaded the bundle on the horse, had also disappeared.

"Well, let's be off then, boy," the courier said cheerfully, swinging up into the saddle. "Let me know if you need to stop and rest – I'll keep us at an easy pace."

"Yes, ser," Alistair said, and quickly mounted his pony. He glanced around the empty courtyard, once, then turned his pony's head and followed the courier away. He forced himself to not look back as they crossed the bridge, and left Redcliffe castle and the village behind.


End file.
